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BRARY OF 



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j| UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. | 



VIOLET LEE, 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



BY 

MRS. S. L. OBERHOLTZER. 



$> 



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PHILADELPHIA: J 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

i873- 



75 *4-** 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 



Lippincott's Press, 
p h i la delphia. 



TO 
MY BELOVED BROTHER, 

T. L. VICKERS, 

PLAYMATE OF MY CHILDHOOD, 

AND 

STAUNCH FRIEND OF MY RIPER YEARS, 

|[ affjcciionatclg dedicate 

THIS VOLUME. 



PREFACE. 



As violets come with spring-time, 

This rhythm came to me ; 
Not strong, mayhap, or holy, 

But as the sunshine, free. 

My friends, for you I've gathered 
This bunch of humble bloom, 

Trusting it will o'er some life 
Exhale a faint perfume. 

I pray you take it kindly, 

Nor think I deem it rare ; 
Only a span of violets 

Thrown on the passing air. 

SARA LOUISA OBERHOLTZER. 

Cambria Station, Pa. 



CONTENTS. 













PAGE 


Violet Lee ....... 








II 


The Close of November 














38 


Content .... 














39 


Pure Water .... 














40 


March .... 














4i 


The Spring-time . 














44 


Clarence 














46 


Snow . - 














47 


Frank Murriel's Dream 














47 


The Old House . 














49 


The Dead Camellia 














5i 


Why? 














52 


Eventide .... 














53 


Rain at a Country Station . 














55 


By the Sea . 














• 57 


Oak-Leaves . 














. 58 


Waiting 














59 


Thorns 














. 61 


" Suffer Little Children to come unto me" 








. 62 


The Dairy-Maid . 






,■ 








• 63 



8 


CONTENTS. 








PAGE 

Early Sunlight ......... 65 


Woman's Sphere .-■■••■. 






. 69 


The Potter's Children ..... 






. 70 


Charity 






• 71 


Landmark Thirty-Three .... 






• 72 


My Baby's Birthday 






• 73 


The Dawn of the Centennial 






• 75 


Caging Birds ...... 






• 77 


The Rebound of "Rocky Mountain Echoes" 






. 81 


Threading Fate 






• 83 


Call me my Pet Name ..... 






84 


Aunt Mary 






85 


Buttercups . . . . . . 






87 


The Old Well-Curb 






88 


Little Sand-Bars ...... 






90 


Home for Thanksgiving .... 






91 


Flowers from our Graves .... 






93 


Over There 






94 


At the Old Mill . 








97 


The Sewing-Machine 








98 


Broken Rest 









99 


The Self-same Dust 


. 






100 


Lines . 








102 


Rum . 









103 


Our Pearls . 








105 


The May Burial . 


. 






107 



CONTENTS. 



Dreaming . 

" Changing in the Neck" 

Sealed Books 

Frogs 

Prospect Park . 

The Crooked Cedar . 

Struggling for a Foothold 

Gone Under 

The Summer Rain 

Language . 

Bury me at Sunset 

That Old Bedstead . 

Morning 

A Mother's Thought . 

Into the Summer of 1865 

The Aged . 

Walter Underglen 

To Grandma 

We Cannot 

The Sparrows 

Forget that Love 

The Dead Letter 

Ictodes Fcetidus 

Old and New . 

The Hair they Wear . 

Good-by 



PAGE 

108 
109 
no 
in 

"3 

"5 
116 
117 
118 
120 
122 
123 
125 
125 
126 
128 
129 
132 

133 
134 
135 
136 

139 
140 
141 

143 



VIOLET LEE. 



Full many winters' silvery light 
Slept in Margery's tresses white, 
And various herbs a sweet perfume 
Breathed about her life and room : 
About her life, because she gave 
Counsel free to suffering save ; 
About her room, because they hung 
On the rafters, and fragrance flung 
Into the crisp and crackling air 
That mingled with the hearth-fire there. 
Margery knitted, her heart at rest, 
Knitting its ponderings into crest ; 
Thinking while her old husband slept 
In his arm-chair, and silence kept ; 
Not but he kept it oft awake, 
'Twas hers to give, and his to take, 
The constant talk of good or ill 
That comes one's daily cup to fill. 

There, nestled in the valley green 
That rests the hill and stream between, 
Reposed the cottage, quaint and old ; 
Sheltered in from heat and cold 

ii 



I2 VIOLET LEE. 

By many ancient forest trees, 

That break the storm and woo the breeze. 

In this odd cottage dwell but three, 

Of which the chief is Margery ; 

But gleam of beauty womanly 

Is the lovely Violet Lee. 

Through the woodland, gloaming and deep, 

Adown the rocky hillside steep, 

In the meadow, the stream beside, 

Everywhere that an herb could hide, 

Roamed the maiden, the summer through, 

Gathering and watching where they grew. 

It was young Margery's delight 
To gather and husband herbs aright ; 
And now that age comes creeping on, 
And her elastic tread has gone 
Into a sombre heavy walk, 
She spends her energy in talk, 
Bidding Violet swiftly run 
And bring the work of earth and sun : 
" For, child, you see my stock is low ; 
Go where liverwort blossoms blow, 
Before the summer sun's rich glow 
Fades them ; purpling white, you know, 
Are the flowers ; pluck stem and all ! 
Somebody '11 have a cough this fall; 
And they think I've power to cure 
All the ills that flesh endure. 

"Generously plant the garden-seeds; 
And keep the herb-bed clear of weeds, 



VIOLET LEE. 13 

Preparing in the early spring 
Separate border for everything. 
The chamomile and sage, you know, 
Have been sleeping under the snow ; 
The old -man, and the tansy too, 
Will brighten and put forth anew ; 
The blue flag will be peeping up, 
Its broadsword leaves the soil will cut- 
Later, sweet marjoram and balm 
Will waken in a perfumed calm. 
Poppy-seed and cardinal-flower 
Plant by thyme, beneath the bower 1 
Lady-slipper and marigold 
May grow together as of old. 
The angelica and comfrey, 
The amethyst red, and anise, 
Put where last season's aconite, 
Beautiful poison, drank the light. 
The sunflower next elecampane, 
And do not get confused again 
When the great golden blossoms blow; 
They are not much alike, you know, 
Because the 'campane's root is strong 
And lives in earth the winter long; 
The sunflower in a perfect seed 
Thoughtfully packs its yearly need^ 
Expanding to a broader tree 
Than 'campane's rooted ages be. 
Herbs are so different in their way 
That peep without this ball of clay ; 
And though they seem akin to be. 
Their individuality 



14 



VIOLET LEE. 

Is perfect and distinct as ours ; 
Reared some for roots, for others flowers. 
And sow the other seeds, my dear, 
Just as you saw me do last year." 
So Margery directions gave, 
And Violet, with spirit brave, 
Flew to her bidding. The spring air 
Ne'er fell on gardener more fair; 
Her brunette beauty, brightened by 
The ruddier glow of earth and sky, 
Smiled on the summer when it came, — 
Smiled, as she listened to the dame 
Recount the herbs of hill and glade, 
Of meadow and of woodland shade, 
That she must bring before the fall 
Chilled and broke the heart of all. 

" Gather me," quoth old Margery, 

" On the stream border, of balmony ; 

The marsh-mallow is flowering pink 

In the meadow to-day, I think. 

Gather stalks with blossoms filled ; 

Do not let the leaves get spilled. 

Lily dig, and calamus-root ; 

Watch yellow parilla-vines shoot ; 

That we may know, when comes the time, 

Around what slender shrubs they twine. 

Benjie will help these roots to get, 

For in the swamps 'tis ever wet ; 

And the while he's out, you know 

(As at starting he oft is slow), 



VIOLET LEE. 15 

Have him dig of the red puccoon : 

It blossomed white in May or June. 

Then on the roadside as you go, 

Pull up a dandelion or so ; 

Carrot-root too, and parsnip wild ; 

Golden seal, do you know it, child ? 

Upon the hillside, in the shade, 

I think you'll find the rootlets laid; 

Rough and rugged without are they, 

Within, bright as a golden ray. 

Bring the star-root from sandy loam, 

And pluck, while there, of mullein's bloom. 

Black cohash and May-apple get 

Many roots, and blackberry yet, — 

And dig whatever else you see 

Requisite to my rootery. 

Then have old Benjie sit to rest ; 

Perhaps aglow with earnest zest 

He will forget how frail he be. 

He's now from rheumatism free 

(Thanks to the poke-root and puccoon ! 

They're slow, but sure old joints to tune), 

And I would have Jiim thus remain. 

So you be thoughtful, lest again 

You have the weary winter through 

All of the outside chores to do. 

He was in youth so staunch and strong, — 

Ah me ! it is not very long 

Since, standing at my father's gate, 

I pouted at his coming late ; 

He had walked of miles two score, 

And said he'd walk as many more 



j 6 VIOLET LEE. 

If I would not upon him smile 
And sit and chat with him awhile. 
So we have chatted all these years, 
Chatted away our hopes and fears ; 
And Benjie's been as true a spouse 
As ever God to earth allows. 
But now he fails to hear full well 
All of the news I would him tell ; 
It may be age that's creeping on, — 
Our life-boats have been rowed so long, 
That they are by the waters worn, 
And one by one the sails get torn * 
Until too weak to stem the tide, 
A stronger hand that waits beside 
Takes up the bruised and broken oar, 
And rows the shattered boats ashore. 
We see the harbor's open gate, 
And only for the pilot wait. 

"In all these years we've had some grief, 

That could not always find relief 

In tears, the natural, rightful way 

For sorrows ebbing swift away ; 

And in our hearts lie buried deep 

The crop of joy we hoped to reap. 

Mown some by the Reaper's hand 

So early, little graves of sand 

Tell only of the pattering feet, 

That might have brightened this retreat. 

But the sheaf we watched with care, 

Deeming its fruitage perfect, rare, 



VIOLET LEE. 

Is garnered in we know not where ; 
Only it is not sleeping there. 
Ever will my grieved soul yearn 
Towards my sheaf till its return. 
'Twas roots, my dear, of which I spoke! 
Somehow this latent memory woke, 
And I have thus delayed you long, 
Telling how Benjie is not strong." 

The roots, collected with delight, 
Within the cottage cheerily bright, 
All sheltered from the dews of night, 
Are strung along the wall so white 
To dry ; their various odors flit 
Down to the household, as they sit 
Enjoying summer's ripening days. 

Violet works in deep amaze 

In the garden bloom : beauty breaks 

Under her hand, and fragrance takes 

Wings like birds, and is borne along 

Like the sweet cadence of their song ; 

Echoing in each nook and dell 

Of the glad glory that they swell. 

But Violet must broader go, 

For the wild herbs are all ablow ; 

She must, out from the garden bloom, 

Pluck the elixir life perfume ; 

For Margery, her friend so true, 

All the mother she ever knew, 

Speaks from the latticed porchway low : 

" Violet, darling, will you go 

2* 



17 



T S VIOLET LEE. 

To the orchard, and meadow green, 
Down beside the rippling stream, 
Plucking the blossoms ere they fall 
To the ground and are wasted all ? 
Bring the water- and peppermint 
From where the sunshine's yellow glint 
Kisses the spray from off their lips 
And warms their long-leaved finger-tips : 
Binding them separately ; for though 
The sister herbs together grow, 
They're not the same in gift or heart ; 
Label like twins to know apart. 
And, maybe, 'gainst a rocky ledge, 
There, close along the water's edge, 
You'll chance to find the hood wort now, 
With its azure eyes and brow. 
The wild hyssop, and boneset, too, 
Are there as fine as ever grew ! 
It seems they've leased the meadow-land, 
And taken quite too bold a stand ; 
With brier-scythe we'll send black Jake 
Warning their trespassed lease to break : 
Giving the elders a lesson good, 
Not to impose because they could. 
The brindle cow much thinner looks, 
Since Benjie can't use brier-hooks. 
Though I to culturing herbs incline, 
I will not have them rob my kine, 
Or hold an undisputed reign 
While life's necessities be slain. 



VIOLET LEE. i 9 

"Ragweed, plantain, and yellow docks, 
Catnip, yarrow, the sweet wild phlox, 
And the lobelia azure blown, 
Have unto summer fullness grown. 
We'll need them in our herbal store, 
So pluck them, Violet, before 
To the deep forest shades you go ; 
Pluck, and bind them in bunches, so ! 

"From the woodland, another day, 

Bring me St. John's wort, golden gay ; 

And agrimony's lighter shade 

Of yellow bloom is in the glade. 

Gather it carefully, lest the burs 

Prick your fingers, and life-blood stirs 

Up to the surface with the pain. 

Then get the sumac's scarlet stain, 

And pennyroyal of odor deep. 

The dittany's upon the steep ; 

Amid the rocks there, too, may be 

Some rare and precious barberry, 

Wild chamomile and fennel sweet ; 

And in some misty, damp retreat, 

The tender fern, the maiden-hair, 

You'll find in filmy beauty there. 

Bring the- wood-sorrel, too, my dear; 

Its leaves are heart-shaped, light and sheer, 

Holding a tiny blossom white 

Benignly up to catch the light : 

It is the Irish shamrock, too ! 

And when on Western prairies new, 



2o VIOLET LEE. 

Its flowers are as violet blue, 
Its leaves of deeper, greener hue. 
Get colchicum and pipsissewa. 
Solomon's seal of wisdom gray 
Adorns the hillside by the way : 
Pull while the berries purpling stay ; 
The root contains its rich supplies, 
And Solomon has sealed it wise. 

"Then, there are autumn berries yet, 
That you can at your leisure get ; 
The prickly- and the wafer-ash 
Gleam ebony as midnight dash. 
And out upon the laden air 
There rests a pungent perfume rare. 
And the spice-wood berries red, 
Bruised and bottled, it is said, 
Will greatly rheumatism ease ; 
Gather them generously, please. 
The brown seed of Jerusalem oak 
I've often from the branches broke; 
■ And though I still have some in store, 
I'd thank you, child, to bring me more. 
The checkerberries wait the frost, 
And with black alder oft are lost 
Under a drift of fleecy snow ; 
But as it melts, their beauty, lo ! 
Is peeping out with scarlet glow, 
Like sparks of fire from bellows blow : 
You, my dear, with your hands so wee, 
May clasp these crimson gleams for me. 



VIOLET LEE. 21 

"And the bayberry on the hill, 

I had almost forgotten, till 

The thought of winter light and fire 

Recalls the flame I most admire ; 

Bayberry tallow-candle, rare, 

Emits a ray so clear and fair, 

And perfumes soft the evening air, 

Casting a glow, and not a glare. 

I never could live with lamp's dull gloom 

Breathing impurity into the room ! 

Bayberries now are waxing white, 

And clinging to the branches tight ; 

Bring me a wealth of them, my dear, 

To make wax tallow for all the year." 

Violet much of autumn spent 

Out with nature, deeply intent 

On gathering all these useful things, 

Plucking them, while she sweetly sings : 

" Chinkle a chink ! 
Chinkle a chink ! 
Bird of the streamlet, 
Come and drink! 

« 

Let me bathe your downy brow 
With dripping pearl, for I know how. 

" Chinkle a chink ! 

Chinkle a chink ! 

Why do you still 

Retreating shrink ? 
Let me smooth your feathers brown, 
Fondly pat your tufted crown. 



22 VIOLET LEE. 

" Chinkle a chink ! 
Chinkle a chink ! 
Take me into 
Your life's sweet link; 
Let me be a bird like you, 
Warbling all my lifetime through. 

" Chinkle a chink ! 
Chinkle a chink ! 
Lend me your wings, 
And then I think 
I could fly nearer the sky, 
Touch the angels by-and-by." 

Wooing the birds, her soft, low trill 
Sweetly the ambient air would fill ; 
And to the snatches of her song 
A spell-bound artist listened long. 
Now she is humming a wild refrains- 
Hush ! and hear the words again : 

"Branded leaves are falling, 
Maple fires appalling, 
Weird thoughts recalling, 

Burst through the trees. 

" Weary Dryads benighted, 
Waxen tapers lighted, 
And sadly affrighted, 

At the chill breeze, 



VIOLET LEE. 23 

" To their glen were rushing; 
Fear their motion flushing, 
One wee flame went brushing 
'Gainst maple-leaves. 

" Swift the fire around them 
With its spirit bound them, 
Scarlet, as we've found them : 
The forest grieves ! 

"And its leaves are falling, 
To the maples calling, 
Your weird fire enthralling 
Blasted us all ! 

"Forever it's returning, 
This red brand of burning, 
And proudly its spurning 
Break of its thrall. ' ' 

The artist listened, crept away 

Into his heart that memory day; 

Then, with a nimble, well-schooled hand, 

He sketched this little fairy wand. 

She seemed to him a sylvan sprite, 

Gathering and emitting light ! 

In vain he wondered what she did 

With the berries her basket hid ; 

Whether of them the fairies ate, 

Or threw them 'gainst their golden gate, 

An "open sesame," and, standing, wait 

The ponderous hinges' backward grate. 



24 



VIOLET LEE. 

Mythical visions on his brain 
Came pattering thick as summer rain, 
Of this beautiful Euphrosyne, 
Who still, in .her unconscious glee, 
Is drifting music on the trees, 
Lading with sibyl sound the breeze : 

" Glenwater ! Glenwater ! 
Sparkling and bright, 
Tell if my lover 

Is coming to-night ! 
Tell what he's thinking all the day through, 
Whisper, Glenwater ! I'm listening to you ; 
Softly you ripple, lucid and blue, 
Tell, are his heart-beats as constant and true? 

"Glenwater! Glenwater! 
Sparkling and bright, 
Tell if my lover 

Is coming to-night ! 
Has he been tracing my name on the sand ? 
And lingered it fondly under his hand ? 
Or dashed you it out, thus breaking the band, 
Bidding the dear letters die on the strand ? 

' ' Glenwater ! Glenwater ! 
Sparkling and bright, 
Tell if my lover 

Is coming to-night ! 
Whisper his name and his station to me ! 
For life I've been threading so busily, 



VIOLET LEE. 25 

That I've forgotten what breathed the gypsy 
Of the strong lover I'm waiting to see. 
Glenwater ! Glenwater ! 
Sparkling and bright, 
Tell if my lover 

Is coming to-night !" 

And she went home to see, maybe ; 
Sheaves and basket half wearily, 
Herbs and berries, Violet Lee 
Bore to the cottage and Margery. 



A student artist at Florence sat ; 
His sunny hair, an heir-loom that 
His mother had passed down to him, 
Clustered soft, and the picture dim 
Seemed by the contrast : his gray eyes 
Intently watched the blending skies 
That at his will would smile or frown 
Upon the Scottish hamlet brown 
That his own hands had builded there, — 
And should the sky be dark or fair? 
He never could decide, I ween, 
And so it lingered just between ; 
The sun amid the clouds had crept, 
And thus the little hamlet slept. 
Proudly gazed the artist down 
Upon his first created town ; 



26 VIOLET LEE. 

Not with a pride alone his own, 

But of the joy 'twould bring his home. 

And then he fell to musing, how 

Dora would softly smooth his brow, 

Kissing out the bands of care 

That often now were resting there ; 

How when his daily toil was done 

Mother would kindly bless her son, 

And father's heart would quicker beat 

At the glad coming of his feet : — 

Those feet should keep the rightful way, 

And never wandering go astray. 

Alas ! of hopes and empty air 

Construct we many castles fair, 

Doomed to destruction, swift and dire, 

That like light fuel feed the fire 

Of sorrow, swell the flame up higher, 

Make more ashy deep the mire 

That we must travel through to grasp 

Again life's joys and sweet hope clasp. 

And is it better thus to build 

Dreamy castles never filled ? 

Clasp a heart whose beat is stilled? 

Feel with joy our bosom thrilled 

With the gleeful might have been ? See 

Our fondest, brightest visions be 

Dashed on the rock reality, 

With no hope of eternity ? 

Or to be passive, never know 

The great, strong hopes that feel the throe, 

The throb and misery of fire, 

The grieving, and maybe the ire, 



VIOLET LEE. 

That comes to souls who think and wake 
And into outward ripples break? 
God, and not we, knows what should be 
To fit for Him humanity. 
There, standing in the open door, 
The artist's bright contour before, 
Was his unhappy, sorrowing sire, 
Begrimed with travel, dust, and tire. 
At sight of Randel's glowing face 
He shrank, knowing the grief he'd trace 
There when a few short words were said, 
Tidings of their beloved, and dead. 

" Why, father ! what deep joy is this? 
Embrace me, father, let us kiss ! 
We were divided by the sea, 
And here you are thus close to me. 
Why, what's amiss? you're pale as death ! 
Lie on this lounge and get your breath ; 
A glass of water, a draught of wine, 
I'll get you in a moment's time." 

" Hold you, my boy ! I came to tell 
What makes our lives as dark as hell ; 
I crossed the ocean o'er again 
To dole more softly out the pain 
To you ; balm oil I thought to pour, 
But my own wound is still so sore, 
That sight of you unnerves me, boy, 
And I can put no sweet alloy 
Into the cup x)f sorrow. Now, 
Bluntly, rudely, I'll tell you how 



27 



2 g VIOLET LEE. 

Your mother and your sister died 
A Minnesota stream beside. 
Yes, it is true ! God comfort you 
And me : our bonds to life are few ! 
I could not bear to write it, so 
I'm here, my son, to break the blow. 
How was it ? It was thus, my child : 
The early winter seemed so mild, 
That we prolonged our Western stay ; 
Your mother had, you know, alway 
Desired to visit her staunch friend 
Of early time, Matilda Glend. 
They're living near St. James, and we, 
Pleased with this opportunity, 
Halted a few days on our route, 
To see the Glends and look about ; 
I would to God we had gone on, 
And never set a foot upon 
That Minnesota soil ! But no ; 
We halted there ! No angel glow 
Of warning came to light and show, 
Or whisper us to onward go ! 
And so we tarried, all we three, 
To visit the Glend family. 

"Into St. Paul one morning clear 

I rode by rail, to see what cheer 

And change increasing commerce brought 

The capital ; and fondly thought 

To hear the ' Laughing Water Falls,' 

That Minnehaha's lover calls ; 



VIOLET LEE. 

Calls through long centuries to be, 
Calls, but it chills my memory. 
Next day we were to leave, and I 
Was hastening early back. The sky 
All inky black the sun o'erran ! 
Fierce battle wind and storm began ! 
Just as we reached St. James it blew 
Fearfully cold, and blinding grew. 
Not daring I to stem the tide 
Which none can brook, the time did glide 
Direfully slow while fury passed. 
Through all the bitter night 't did last, 
Breathing destruction wide, and death, 
Robbing mortal and beast of breath ! 
To God I prayed my kith and kin 
Should never be such wild storm in. 
Prayed ! who hears me when I pray ? 
Perished my darlings on that day ! 

" With morning, when the storm was still, 
I started with a hearty will 
To walk the intervening way, 
And their anxieties allay, 
Who would be grieved at my delay, 
And frightened at the storm's affray. 
I'd walked scarce half a mile, my boy, 
When, to my unexpected joy, 
I saw Glend's famous family sleigh 
Upon the road in front that lay. 
With quickening step I nearer pressed ; 
The horses standing seemed to rest ; 
3* 



29 



3° 



VIOLET LEE. 

The occupants I saw were three, 
But they no welcome spoke to me. 
The pompous driver sat erect, 
Stretching the lines o'er horses flecked 
Heavily with snow, and behind 
Two ladies peacefully reclined ; 
Coming to meet me, but so still, 
They seemed cut by a sculptor's will. 
A phantom,- thought I ! but, oh, no ! 
I neared them, — God ! can this be so ? 
I gasped, my own life ebbing fast, 
Every light and hope outcast, 
For, Randel, sitting frozen there — 
Open the window, son, more air ! 
Oh, can I, need I, tell you on, 
Of how I met them thus upon 
God's open ground, beneath His sky? 
Rebellious that they thus should die 
While resting on His very arm, 
Which promises to shield from harm. 
Coming to meet me, they met death ! 
Oh that the storm had drank my breath 
Instead ! or beat out my weary life 
Before this bitter grief and strife 
Came into it ! Let us not go 
Deeper into this fearful woe. 
I bring my troubled life to you, 
Its beats are growing short and few; 
I would they could have buried deep 
From you this grief, and left you keep 
Your gladness !" 



VIOLET LEE. 

E'en beneath the stroke 
A fuller, broader manhood woke 
Within the student artist ; though 
Crushed by the great afflicting blow, 
His bruised heart bent, he felt the glow 
Of sympathizing love below, 
Knew it must be his to succor ; 
That he must be the child no more, 
But the support and strength of sire, 
Leading him up, God willing, higher, 
From out this dreadful grief and night 
Into some lingering ray of light. 
Gently, caressingly, he spoke ; 
A faint smile o'er the father broke, 
Down to his sorrowing heart ; and 
He daily grew to feel life's sand 
More precious under the strong hand 
Of the son ; the weakened life-band 
Gathered strength, and its tension grew 
Firmer with sympathy it drew. 

Abandoned Randel his own aim, 

His expectation fond of fame, 

Ambition, easel, packed away; 

And the bright path that late did lay 

Before him, faded swift to gray. 

But not in sunshine's glowing ray 

Our worthiest thoughts are always born ; 

They oftener waken in a storm. 

And if we feel the fall of rain, 

We welcome back the light again 



3i 



32 



VIOLET LEE. 

More fondly, that it fill our needs, 

Swell into virtues little seeds 

The raging storm-winds scattered wide 

In nooks where sunshine cannot glide. 

In giving one's self freely up 

To distill comfort in the cup 

Of a beloved one, the over-drops 

Continually dripping, stops 

In our own heart, so sweet and still 

That life becomes a rippling rill 

Of peace, outflowing through the soul, 

And ever broader grows its roll 

Towards eternity's ocean, 

Till at last its limpid motion 

Feels the great current growing strong, 

And knows the distance is not long ; 

We hear an echoing angel song, 

And feel their breath in passing on. 

Thus Randel felt the flowing stream 
Through his whole being, as a gleam 
Of reconciliation sweet 
Hallowed the father; and 'twas meet 
That they should travel on ; for gold 
Once garnered for the loves now cold 
They spended lavishly, nor thought 
It worth more than the ease it brought. 

The winter had warmed into spring, 
And the late summer birds did sing, 
When our two wanderers bent their feet 
Through nature everywhere replete 



VIOLET LEE. . 33 

With radiant beauty on the wane, 
To find the humble home again 
That wrapt the father in his youth ; 
Where parents taught him rigid truth, 
And would have kept him from the world 
In which his life had long unfurled. 
A bitterness that now was not 
He had felt earlier towards the spot ; 
But as the glow of peace and love, 
And Christ's baptism from above, 
Fell on him, they washed out the gall, 
And all the stain of Adam's fall; 
Guiding him now contritely back 
Into his childhood's beaten track; 
Into his dear old parents' hearts, 
Where swift anew the child-love starts. 

It was on the same afternoon 

That Violet Lee we've seen attune 

In forest glade, with work and song, 

That, borne by influence good and strong, 

A stranger swung the cottage gate, 

And found that God had left them wait ; 

And left them wait so peacefully, 

Old Benjie dear and Margery. 

Their waning lives o'erflowed with joy 

To clasp again their only boy ; 

To feel his arms around them twine 

Seemed perfect bliss, almost divine. 

So long had been the thirty years 

Since they had shed relentless tears, 



34 



VIOLET LEE. 

And bade him, if he'd marry so, 

Forever from their threshold go. 

And now the love for which he'd flown 

Had into a winged angel grown, 

And ne'er could give the pardoning kiss, 

Completing the old parents' bliss; 

But she forgave them all, I know ; 

No bitter thoughts to heaven go. 

Rude scandal's breath was most unjust 

In striving her fair fame to rust, 

And Margery knew long ago 

That Hugo's wife was pure as snow. 

Wide open was the cottage thrown, 
They prayed their son no more to roam, 
But bring his Randel to their home, 
And leave them not to die alone. 

Violet looked with new surprise 

Into Margery's brightened eyes, 

As, heeding not the wealth she bore, 

Into her listening ear did pour 

The story of her sheaf returned, 

For which her heart and Benjie's burned ; 

Burned long, and into ashes white 

She thought they would be with the night 

So wearying long, but the day broke ! 

And with the light they gladly woke 

To find the fire of mourning out, 

And sunshine wrapping them about. 

When dusk had held the daylight still, 
Until the moon on wooded hill 



VIOLET LEE. 

Was casting shadows wild at will, 
Our Rand el, with a joyful thrill, 
Crossed to the cottage on the glade, 
Whither his fairy seemed to fade ; 
E'en while clasped in greeting warm, 
Reflected in his mind her form ; 
And he was questioning if she be 
A myth or a reality. 

And later grandame Margery 

Told them of her Violet Lee ; 

The youthful gleam of beauty rare, 

Whom God and chance had drifted there ; 

What a great comfort she had been, 

And how she came to enter in 

So fully to their wants and ways, 

Thus lighting up their shadowing days ; 

Of how she flitted in and out, 

Shedding gold brightness in her route. 

Of flowers that smiled and herbs she brought, 

Margery told, and never thought 

Hugo or Randel might have seen 

This lovely bit of sunshine gleam 

Before. But the young artist knew, 

He felt the sunshine drifting through 

His life : the grand old cottage quaint 

Seemed hallowed by this fairy saint. 

Dwelled they now in other rooms 
Save where we've been in herb perfumes, 
And gathered knowledge, deeper, more 
Than comes from herb or garden lore. 



35 



36 



VIOLET LEE. 

The winter with its fleece of snow 

Falls on the cottage, soft and slow, 

Caressingly it sleeps below, 

Within its fondling fingers go 

O'er Benjie's hair and Margery's. 

And Hugo, at his patient ease, 

Watches it clinging to the trees, 

Fancying that in it he sees 

The angel wings that for him wait, 

A passport to the golden gate. 

And Randel in the fall of snow 

Sees everything in beauty blow ; 

For on the downy winter air 

He hears sweet Violet's song and prayer, 

As unto the pure rhythmic swell 

He hearkens, so we will as well : 

"Life's full completeness 
Basks in the sweetness 
Of love ! 
Though snow is coming, 
Hear the fond humming 
Of spring ! 

" My heart overflowing 
Feels the sweet glowing 

Above. 
Touched by God's finger, 
Beauty will linger 

And cling 



VIOLET LEE. 

"Around we mortals, 
Till heaven's portals 

Unswing, 
And angels greeting 
Question at meeting, 

What bring? 

"Randel replying, 
Say underlying 

Our way, 
True love was tender, 
Knew no surrender 

Of faith. 

" Pure as the whiteness 
Of the snow's lightness, 

I pray ! 
Our souls transparent, 
Feel that inherent 

He saith, 

"That never, never, 
These souls dissever, 

Or part, 
But close together 
Dwell they forever 

In heart" 



37 



THE CLOSE OF NOVEMBER. 

Nature's heart is beating, beating, beating out the 
autumn ! 

Winter's winds are blowing, snowing, sleeting out the 
autumn ! 

Frost and snow and ice awaiting dawn of bleak De- 
cember, 

Wedded dreary winter month to the sweet November ; 

All the Indian summer light has faded from her fea- 
tures, 

All the haze and purple daze that beautified her 
creatures. 

Ah, those hallowed, glorious days ! in my memory rest- 
ing, 

How they calm my aching soul against the current 
breasting ! 

In the sunny long ago, 'twas later Indian summer, 

We walked the dead brown leaves among, and heard 
the brooklet murmur. 

'Twas summer then! Oh, sad, worn heart, still thy 
restless beating ! 

Thy flowers are dead, and threadbare hopes not worth 
the oft repeating ! 

He will not ! cannot ! come as then upon the brown 
leaves crushing, 

For Indian summer all is gone, and winter on us rush- 
ing ! 



CONTENT. 



39 



He cannot come, but I must go; take me up, kind 

Heaven ; 
For that fond tie that bound me here is riven ! riven ! 

riven ! 
Let my life beat out with autumn \ faded, tired, I seem 

to be ; 
Let me come, my heavenly Father ! nestling nearer him 

and Thee. 
Take me, God ! and do forgive me if I murmur at my 

fate; 
Knock I at thy golden gate: tell me, Father, am I 

late? 



CONTENT. 



Deep, silver-shining lake, 
How much of thirst you slake ! 
Glad rivers, onward borne 
Through pebbly channels worn, 
How much you fresh the sea ! 
Sweet, peaceful, resting lea, 
The rain and gladd'ning dew 
Fills all your springs anew, 
O'erflows the thirsty cups, 
And every bright child sups 
That on your bosom rests, 
Is satisfied, and blest. 

All nature seems akin, 

And drinks God's comfort in 



4o 



PURE WATER. 

By long indulgence right, — 
Ne'er brooding over blight ; 
But like the river's roll, 
Or progress of a soul, 
Goes on, forever on ; 
Rebuilding in its way 
Each particle of clay ; 
Pressing and moulding o'er 
These bits of earthy shore, 
Till human gladness swells 
In bursting buds, and tells 
That nature's perfect plan 
Should stamp the heart of man. 

Yet, how we longing grasp, 
And murmuring, thirsting, ask 
A blessing's level cup, 
Then cry for it piled up ! 
An ocean might o'erflow, 
And we unslaked still go 
Dissatisfied, unless 
We have content to bless. 



PURE WATER. 



Pure water, pure air, and pure thoughts, 
Give to man strength and health ; 

Doing this, they lead him up to 
Comfort, thence to wealth. 



MARCH. 41 

Now, if all false thirsts were banished, 

All the poisonous liquors spilled, 
And we drink but clear cold water 

From nature's springs distilled, 

The air would lose its vileness 
That comes from whisky's breath, 

And many persecuted ones 
Arise from living death. 

The air, if it were possible 

To be thus purified, 
Would inculcate much whiter thoughts 

Than now swell on its tide, 

And we shake off this incubus, 

This curse of olden time, 
Live holier on pure air, pure thoughts, 

Pure water, and no wine. 



MARCH. 

March with her thralls, 
And wayward brawls, 
The spring-time calls ; 

Calls o'er the lawn 
For break of dawn, - 
And summer fawn, 

4* 



42 



MARCH. 

And tells the trees 
In racking breeze, 
To wake from ease ; 

Whispers the roots 
To send their shoots 
In green surtouts, 

Nor fear the blast 
That cannot last, 
But, marching fast. 

Will soon outwear 

The winter lair 

That holds them there ; 

Shrieks to the frost 
Its reign is lost, 
To count the cost, 

And make repair 
For wear and tear 
By moistened air ; 

Shouts from the hill 
To rippling rill 
Its breast to fill, 

And roughly screams 
To maddening streams 
Its fickle dreams. 



MARCH. 43 

Now sobbing wild 
O'er frozen child, 
Its warmth beguiled 

To leave the sleep 
That snow-drift deep 
Had bade it keep j 

A lullaby, 

A prayerful cry 

It may not die. 

The bluebird flings 
From beak and wings 
The joy it brings. 

A flush of May 
Is here to-day, 
But shrieks away 

So fiercely weird, 
The hope it reared 
Is tempest-seared. 

And wayward March, 

All peace to parch, 

Howls March ! March ! March \ 



THE SPRING-TIME. 

Oh, the Spring-time is the rose-time ! 

True, the Autumn has its light ; 
But the Spring-time is the love-time, 

Let us bask in it to-night. 

While the evening shadows gather 
Round their draperies of mist, 

And great silver tears are welling 
In the eyes so late sun-kissed. 

The tall pine in royal fringes 

Sings the drowsy breeze to sleep ; 

While anear the weeping-willow, 
Cradling bloom it may not keep, 

Carpets all the earth with blossoms, 
Honeyed tassel for the bee, 

With its lithe arms still caressing 
Them to rest upon the lea. 

High and gaunt, two aged locusts, 

Sentinels of the orchard wide, 
Tower above our whole possessions; 
On the top like snow-drifts ride 
44 



THE SPRING-TIME. 45 

Clouds of odor, tinged and creamy ; 

Air that touches them is sweet. 
And the flaky snow of locusts 

Softly drifts about our feet. 

Quilted with the emerald shredding, 

And as soft as velvet all, 
Is the lawn that was so callous, 

Covered with a broidered shawl. 

In the bridal robes of Spring-time, 

Sweet within my memory now, 
Is my darling, and the lilies 

That I threaded for her brow. 

Lower were the pine and willow, 

And the orchard not in bear ; 
Staid and stalwart were the locusts, 

Crowded thick with bloom, and fair. 

Humbler flowers that decked our border 

Sweeter were than these to-day ; 
And the lilies for my darling 

Blossom in my heart for aye. 

So I know the Spring is love-time ; 

Though the Autumn has its light, 
Still, the Spring-time is the glad time, 

And I dwell in it to-night. 



CLARENCE. 

So fragile, that the mother's prayer, 
Combined with lavish wealth and care, 
Whom brothers eight rejoiced to share, 
Could keep the breath no longer there. 

So fragile, that as manhood woke, 
His lifetime beat its last faint stroke ; 
And ere love's hand could death revoke, 
Unto his soul the morning broke. 

So fragile ! the good Father knew 
He could not see much trouble through, 
And clasped him closer, as He drew 
His precious life from out our view. 

So fragile ! thoughts of love still cling 
Around the angel on the wing; 
An untold wealth of joy 'twould bring 
Could he awaken with the spring. 

So fragile are the fairest flowers, 
Their beauty breathes a few short hours. 
So fragile are some pure life-powers, 
They break away for Eden's bowers. 



46 



SNOW. 

Snow ! snow ! snow ! 
With your crystals and feathers of white, 

Snow ! snow ! snow ! 
With your drapery soft and light, 
You fall so slow, and yet I know 
You cover my graves with beautiful snow. 

Snow ! snow ! snow ! 
Deep, deep in those graves we laid, 

Snow ! snow ! snow ! 
Bright earthly flowers to fade ; 
The dust below is sacred, so 
Cover it gently, O beautiful snow. 



FRANK MURIELL'S DREAM. 

" Last night I dreamed ! The whole world seemed 
Beautifully gleamed, thick-studded with stars; 

Old Time reposed, as I supposed, 
And left unclosed the great golden bars. 

" The light flooded through, the sombre earth grew 
All brilliantly new \ Death's sway was stayed ! 

The angels seemed to be close to the stars and me, 
Sin did swiftly flee from the light and fade. 

47 



48 FRANK MUR I ELL'S DREAM. 

" Like heaven, my dream dissolved the theme, 
And the veil between was a filmy mist ; 

I floated at will ; for as Time was still, 
Of his wearying thrill I knew no tryst. 

" I crossed the bar that I found ajar, 

And wandered far among the blest ; 
And our Christ was there 1 He smoothed my hair, 

Till all age and care were lost in rest. 

" My love I clasped, and her pardon asked 

For the years that passed in a dimmer sphere ; 
So beautiful she, as she smiled on me, 
In her angel glee, ' Glad welcome, my dear ! ' 

"My joy was complete, as the voices sweet 
And the baby feet of our cherubs came ; 

But my gladness spoke, the heaven was broke, 
For I sadly woke unto earth again. 

"I was chill and old, so bitterly cold, 
With no love to fold, and of joy no spark ; 

The stars were shaded, the down bars faded, 
The road not graded with gold, but dark. 

" Harsh poverty stinging round me is clinging, 
And sorrow is bringing its load back again." 

Time beats her numbers, longer age slumbers, 
No waking cumbers with chill and with pain. 

Shroud we him lightly, angels more brightly 
Clothe his soul rightly in vestments so fair ; 

Flowers are awaking, tired souls uptaking 
Dreams, and light breaking leaves gold on the air. 



THE OLD HOUSE. 

Come with me to my grandsire's house, 
At the cross of the worn highway, 

Modestly with its back to the road, 
And its face to the orchard gay. 

Though the early sunlight seems to go 

Into it just as long ago, 

It looks so lone, its length of white, 
E'en in the floods of morning light ; 

The loves are gone, the flowers are gone, 
There's nothing left to make it bright. 

'Twas crowded thick with luscious bloom, 

Honeysuckle and rose perfume. 

They grew so close that, passing in, 
The blushing petals rained adown ; 

And birds that set their castles there, 
Twittered for fear their wilding town 

Would lose its site upon the roof 

And vanish 'mid the flower woof. 

That rose-clad porchway ! low and long, — 
I never have seen such beauty wild. 

Such lavishing wealth of blossoms piled 
On any home, since I a child 

Watched in dear grandfather's door 

Their tears of fullness on the floor. 

5 49 



5° 



THE OLD HOUSE. 

Beloved grandsire ! for thee they grew ; 

Thy friendly garb, thy strong true heart, 
Was shield and nurture for purity. 

The smile grows sad, the tear-drops start, 
Ever thy going out they mourn, 
Bereft of beauty, dipt and shorn ; 

They miss thy helpful hand, and we, 
Who were so oft thy human flowers, 

And ever twined anearer thee, 

Miss too thy tender, steadfast powers, 

The peaceful, quiet, waiting face, 

That welcomed home the call of grace. 

Thy work was bravely, nobly done ; 

To my faint heart it seems so much, 
The wife whom Heaven kindly gave thee, 

So blighting early felt the touch 
Of angels, and followed up to God, 
Leaving thee instead a mound of sod, 

And the nine darling babes she bore, 

From the bright maiden to the tiny boy ; 

Thee cradled all those little love-steps 
On thy bosom, gave them the joy 

Of having a parent true, proof 

Thy faith in Christ was not aloof. 

They blossomed out in tread of years, 

Till only wilding roses stayed 
About thy home of strong, deep love, 

And children's children came and played 



THE DEAD CAMELLIA. 51 

Where thy own babes were wont to be, 
And clambered on the self-same knee. 

The lights are out, a fathomless life 

Has gone where a fathomless love may be 

At a fathomless price. Thy angel there 
Has a welcome of joy for thee, 

Among the true, and among the tried, 

In God's great house, His flowers beside. 



THE DEAD CAMELLIA. 

Once it was white as the driven snow, 
These faded leaves had an emerald glow, 
Lovely a flower as ever did blow 

Was this white Camellia. 

I shrank as it touched my finger-tips 
And haunted me with its creamy lips, 
For out of a life delusion slips 

With this white Camellia. 

My lover saw in my saddened eyes 
No answering joy, no sweet surprise; 
But — a wealth of sympathy underlies 
My love for Camellias. 

Heavy and brown with the dust of years, 
Wrapt in the ashes of unshed tears, 
Kept for a memory my heart reveres, 

This dead white Camellia ' 



WHY? 

Why should it be chill 
When we look for spring? 

Why should the sweet rill 
Of the summer sing ? 

And why should we see 
Of the dawning light, 

When our life must be 
At the drear midnight ? 

Or why should we grasp 
At a mythical star, 

And think, as we clasp, 
That we nearer are ? 

Why should we ever 

Be fleeing along, 
And finding never 

The chorus to song ? 

Why should our hopes float 

High on the wave, 
When we know 'twas wrote, 
Humility 'U save? 
52 



E VENTIDE. 

And why should we fear 
Death's opening door, 

When glorious cheer 
Is shadowed before ? 

Or why should we care 
If the grave be low, 

When Jesus was there 
So long, long ago ? 

Why should we waive 

To a little child 
The faith so brave 

On which He smiled ? 

We suffer of woe 
Not a tithe to Him 

Who paid with life's glow 
The full price of sin. 



53 



EVENTIDE. 



Evening has wrapt in the daylight, 

And the soft draperies of gray 
Droop over ; while the golden bright 

Of stars hushes the gloom away. 
The breeze lulls out a grateful prayer, 

The echo of the day in peace, 
Its farewell to the pain and care, 

Its lullaby of glad release. 



54 



EVENTIDE. 

On the porchway a pleasant group 

Lapse into silence ; each one thinks 
Out his own thoughts, and has his troop 

Of fancies, which he links 
Into the past, or future dim ; 

Some woven chains stretch out so far, 
Yon cloud with amber-tinted rim 

As likely would scoop down a star, 

As that the woof grow strong, and bear 

The quickening pulse and life of day. 
At nightfall, wings that angels wear 

Waft nearer, touching our souls, ray 
Us close to glory; till the balm 

Of slumber on her bosom lays 
Us to repose, and all is calm, 

Kissed by the dreams of silvery haze. 

Within my heart there is a grave, 

All heaped with ashes, white and still : 
Beneath the sun a perfect pave, 

A memory that obeys my will ; 
But as the twilight wooes the stars, 

Unbidden comes my worshiped face, 
Nor time, nor shadow, ever mars 

The loveliness in it I trace. 

Oh, angel vision ! face too pure 

For mortal touch, or daylight's glow, 

Sleep in my soul, and nightly lure 
My weary thoughts from all below ; 



RAIN AT A COUNTRY STATION 

Sleep in immortal beauty ! years 

Can leave no footprints on your brow. 

The music of those tuneful spheres 
Thrills on the silence even now. 

The lull is over, and voices break 

Into the hush ; the moon is out, 
Covering graves and fancies ; take 

The glory memories about 
Our souls, and let the cadence fall 

On other lives that seem less bright. 
The strength of God encompass all, 

And keep us through another night. 



55 



RAIN AT A COUNTRY STATION. 

Three days of ceaseless rain ! 

When will it clear again ? 
Over this watery sheen 
The gladd'ning sun be seen? 

Trees are heavy with rain ; 

Leaves bowed down with pain ; 
Flowers on earthy beds 
Are drooping prayerful heads. 

The chickens, dripping wet, 

Are cawing their regret ; 
Each brilliant scarlet crest 
Bewails an empty breast ] 



56 



RAIN AT A COUNTRY STATION 

A feathery, restless shake 

Longs for the sun to break. 
The peafowl's gorgeous trail 
Drags like a coat of mail, 

The blue and green gilt hues 

Wrapt in the three days' dews. 
The men who bring their milk 
To serve the city of silk, 

Clad in armor of gum, 

Subjects of martyrdom, 

Look by their drowning cheeks 
As if 't had rained for weeks. 

Those who come to the store 

Sit longer than before ; 
Talk of the peeping oat, 
And wish they had a boat 

In which to plow for corn. 

A creaking fish-man's horn 
Sounds with a feeble warn ; 
And pike on branch of thorn 

Swing by the workmen's side, 

As slowly home they stride. 

Alas it ever should rain 
Till flood becomes a bane ! 

Alas the dismal chill, 

If light forget to thrill ! 
Alas, when hearts are sore, 
If Christ smiles out no more ! 

If drizzling clouds between 

Shut out the golden gleam ! 



BY THE SEA. 

The love of God I see 

In the long rain on the lea : 

The dripping sound is sweet 

As tread of angel feet : 
I know the hand of God 
Sprinkles it on the sod ; 

I know the sun behind 

Is bright for all mankind. 



57 



BY THE SEA. 

I sit by the sea, and it seems to me 

The waves stay out so long ; 
I sit by the sea, and I seem to see 

Their crests grow firm and strong. 

On the foaming white of the misty light 

My lover seems to ride ; 
And I think how lone in his billowy home 

Upon the silver tide. 

Then I look again, through my blinding pain ; 

The ocean's full of wings ! 
So I hush my heart, and I hear a part 

Of joy that Heaven brings. 



OAK-LEAVES.* 

Oak-leaves ! new, yet dripping the strength of ages ; 
Leaves that garlanded long ago the Druid sages, 
And inspired within the Celt a reverence tender, 
As they watched the Druid 'mid your forest render 
Unto the Sul and Faran, his and their Supreme, 
The worship and the sacrifice : the scarlet stream 

Of life-blood, that might cause more fragile leaves to 

weep, 
And drooping, fall upon the human offering, steep 
And stanch with their own pitying force the cruel 

wound, 
Quenching with tears the crackling, flaming fagots 

round. 
Ah ! could you daily bind the Druid's callous brow, 
Dear oak-leaves, and not upon his mystic brain print 

how 

The God he symbolized you for loved deeper peace, 
And unto his wide populace breathed more release, 
Than came by clipping sacred mistletoe with blade 
Of gold, when moon had waxed six days in light ar- 
rayed, 

* The Celts, whose religion was Druidism, revered their priestly- 
Druids. Their worship was held in dense forests, the Druid always 
crowned with oak-leaves; after cutting the sacred mistletoe, they 
offered sacrifice, sometimes human. 

58 



WAITING. 



59 



And that the deep inspiring gloom of forest shade 
Was for a broader, tenderer, purer worship made ? 

How you have walked with earth ! since first her bosom 

throbbed 
With coming life ; and her sin-stricken children sobbed 
For lack of knowledge ; through the twilight corridor 

dim. 
Your shadow ever rests upon the land's broad rim, 
Fresh in its strength, and green, or brown in slumbers 

sheen ; 
Your great, broad palm protective, is sky and earth 

between. 

Though we may not worship as the Celtic Druid did, 
Choosing fadeless laurel for our emblem fair instead, 
We symbolize you strong, and 'neath your spreading 

boughs 
Nightingales and robins trill out their happy vows. 
We let you king the forest you have reigned so long, 
Come to you in gladness, but with no weeping song. 



WAITING. 

I sit fondly weaving, 
From shreds of your leaving, 
A wreath of believing, 
A castle of air ; 



60 WAITING. 

Your light words I treasure 
Beyond their full measure, 
Am culling at leisure 
The false from the fair. 



I often remember 

The chilling November, 

When dead was each ember 

That glowed on the hearth ; 
Your smile came and lighted 
What else seemed benighted, 
My faint heart delighted 

Was wakened to mirth. 

Your sunny eyes glowing 
Were radiance sowing, 
Before I was knowing, 

In love in my heart. 
Then fiercely by crushing 
This new love and blushing, 
That came with sweet gushing, 

I bade it depart ; 

Depart till I called it : 
The life that enthralled it, 
The eyes that installed it, 

Beam over the seas. 
Oh, why did you leave me ? 
And why thus deceive me, 
Thus sadden and grieve me ? 

False Robert Chalese ! 



THORNS. 6 1 

" My darling ! my Mary ! 
My sweet little fairy, 
So tearful and wary, 

Uncloud thy fair brow ! ' ' 
Strong arms round me clasping 
My pardon are asking; 
In love-light I'm basking; 

No false Robert now. 



THORNS. 



A cruel thorn my heart has torn, — - 

A little wound, 'tis true ; 
It soon will heal, but still reveal 

The scar not overgrew* 

Why will we tear, for want of care, 

Or counting of the cost. 
The fondest love, the tenderest dove? 

Oh, what a wealth is lost ! 

A wealth untold, worth all the gold 

A Croesus ever had ; 
Worth all the strives, and all the lives. 

That make men glad or sad. 

Then let us pause and think, because 
These thorns are ugly things ; 

Hard to endure, tedious to cure, 
The wound their piercing brings. 
6 



62 SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN, ETC. 

Watch with fond care, and zealous prayer, 

A love we once have held, 
Lest if it tear, the mending there 

Leave an imperfect weld. 



"SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN TO 
COME UNTO ME," 

"Of such is the kingdom," 
The beautiful kingdom of God ; 

Of untarnished spirits, 
Whose bodies sleep under the sod. 

These sweet little children, 
These blossoms of Paradise fair, 

Oft bud, not to blossom 
In fragrance in this lower air. 

In infinite mercy 
The Father who loveth us all 

Giveth and taketh our 
Blessings : wonder we why His call 

Comes for the tiny baby 
Whom He gave but a few short days ? 

We grieve, but we love Thee, 
Our Father, murmur not at Thy ways. 



THE DAIRY-MAID. 

The graceful, blithesome dairy-maid 

Pats and prints the butter; 
And o'er her face the light and shade 

Betrays a heart a-flutter. 

Her beauty has a ruddy cast ; 

Amid the sun and clover, 
The sickly pallor cannot last 

That spreads the city over ; 

But deeper growing 'neath the hands 
Of nature, widely breathing, 

We find, as stronger grow life's bands, 
A deeper dye is wreathing 

Upon the face, and glowing pink 

As summer roses blushing, 
Of country air and health the link, 

And stamp of freedom gushing. 

This ruddy, blooming dairy-maid 
Moulds with her graceful fingers 

The golden cheese and butter made, 
While in her glad eyes lingers 

63 



64 THE DAIRY-MAID. 

A light the moon the night before 
Had left within them shining ; 

Her heart is conning o'er and o'er 
The vow in it reclining. 

Her dairy life is fading fast, 
And turning Time's page over ; 

Hot-house flowers of brilliant cast 
Supply the place of clover ; 

Around her fashion's votaries cling 
With courtesied precision, 

Comes all the ease that wealth can bring 
To her delighted vision. 

Oh, graceful, blithesome dairy-maid ! 

You're happier 'mid the butter, 
Than reveling in a higher grade 

Of weary fashion's flutter. 



EARLY SUNLIGHT. 

READ AT THE GROVE REUNION OF A. FETTERS AND HIS PUPILS, 

AUGUST, 1872. 

Early sunlight ! fresh and golden, 
Beauties waken, lives embolden, 

Dew-drops drinking off the flowers, 
Nightfall's sombre gateway lifted, 
Sunshine into shadow drifted, 

Rousing, quickening nature's powers. 

Early sunlight ! rich and glowing, 
Summer sunlight ! radiance sowing, 

It is a blessed boon to live ! 
T' see the wild exultant breathing, 
See the beauty round us wreathing, 

To note the glory God can give. 

Birds that late were hushed to sleeping 
Now in tuneful lays are steeping 

All the radiant, ambient air ; 
Fruit and blossom fragrance smiling, 
Other buds to life beguiling, 

Join the gala morning fair. 

Forest-trees that rustle over 
Softened turf, and grass and clover, 

6* 65 



66 EARL Y SUNLIGHT. 

Shake their leaves and raise them higher ; 
Shaking — dew and, sunbeam scatter, 
Causing humbler hearts to patter, 

Lowly ones to feel life's fire. 

Outspread fields so soft and mellow ! 
Corn that's sipped the golden yellow ! 

Cattle in the pasture lowing ! 
Stream in gurgling ripples flowing ! 
Everything that's living, growing, 

Feels the early sunlight glowing. 

We in frailty living, plodding, 

Note the landmarks as we're trodding ; 

Note the light, and drink the glory, 
Marveling, wondering, longing, sighing 
For the brightness round us lying, 

Till the sunlight's dim and hoary ; 

Or till we begrimed with sorrow, 
Grasping for a bright to-morrow, 

Forgetful of the joys that be, 
Onward pushing, headlong rushing, 
Brightest soul-flowers ruthless crushing, 

Cross blindly to eternity. 

We who've known a gladsome childhood, 
Gleeful romped in glen and wildwood, 

Bathed in streams and lain in snow-drifts, 
Scaled at nut-time trees the highest, 
Been to berry-bush the nighest, 

Something know of early sun-rifts ; 



EARLY SUNLIGHT. 67 

Found we then the first strawberries 
Of the season, and the cherries ; 

Plucked arbutus, pinkroot, violet ; 
Roamed the wood for moss and lichen 
To bedeck our playhouse kitchen ; 

Bruised the poke for ink of scarlet. 

Something the school- way we traveled 
Brings a memory oft unraveled ; 

Blossoming chestnuts, burring, falling, 
Opening shellbarks, flow' rets drooping 
Fain would halt our gleeful trooping, — 

Even crimson apples calling, 

In the early morning blushing, 
Strove to stay our merry rushing 

To the door of dear old " White School." 
But we knew where sunshine waited, 
Where the windows worn, ungrated, 

Gleamed it in or heat or cool. 



In it gushed at that old doorway 
Early sunlight, early alway, 

O'er our teacher's desk was*wreathing 
Garlands, as the oak-leaves lifted 
To the breeze the sunshine sifted 

On our tutor, round him seething. 

And he smiled the sunlight early 
To the heart of boy and girlie. 



68 EARL Y SUNLIGHT. 

We, for coming compensated, 
Caught the sunshine, knowledge gaining 
'Neath his patience never waning, 

Caught and kept, nor underrated. 

Children filled with fault and folly, 
Laughing mischief, live and jolly, 

Little heads, brown, flaxen, curly, 
Little hearts just waked to knowing 
Youth finds shadows in the sowing, 

Blessed you for the sunshine early. 

We to-day, the child outgrowing, 
Thank you for your early sowing ; 

Thank you, as we're here together ; 
We your pupils fondly render 
Forth our reverence deep and tender, 

Freighting all the August weather. 

Could we, good for good returning, 
Dash this sunlight radiant, burning, 

Back to that true heart of yours, 
Bright would be your life forever, 
Joy and peace without dissever, 

Light that evermore endures. 



WOMAN'S SPHERE. 

And is it woman's sphere, indeed ! 
To wash and stew, to cook and knead, 
To ever hungry people feed, 
To sow and gather garden-seed, 
And never know a single need 
Above a family's endless greed? 

Or, has she still another sphere ? 
To walk the streets on mornings clear, 
Arrayed in fashion's latest gear 
Of heaviest weight or laces sheer, 
Struggling through the livelong year 
A Paris model to appear ? 

Or, must she novel-reading sit ? 
A brainless, worthless little chit, 
Till through her addled vision flit 
Such fancy pictures as are writ, 
But never will in life emit 
A solitary ray of wit ? 

Oh, tell me, will you? what can be 

The sphere of women who we see 

Laboring or frittering fearfully? 

Forgets she in her zest and glee 

That her cramped soul will soon be free, 

And feel its loss eternally ? 

69 



THE POTTER'S CHILDREN. 

We were all the potter's children, 
And we worked among the clay ; 

It was nine we should have numbered, 
But two early sped away : 

So the potter and his good wife 

Had but seven, seven, seven. 

We were sturdy, romping children, 

Wide awake, or fast asleep ; 
Gleeful rushing through our play-time, 

Quick of hand, and fleet of feet; 
But the potter and his good wife 
Patience had with seven, seven. 

How we builded muddy castles, 
Rows of marbles, dogs, and men, 

Found them faulty when we dried them, 
And our work to do again ! 

Smiled the potter and his good wife 

At their clay-stained seven, seven. 

Times have changed, and we are scattered 
Far and wide in different homes ; 

Each in new, unbroken households, 
Drinking all the joy that comes : 

Still we are the potter's children, 

Still his seven, seven, seven. 
70 



CHARITY. 71 



And we cling in heart together, 
Thinking of the years a-sped, 

Of our romping, playing, planning, 
And the humble prayers we said, 

With the one that is in heaven, 

We're still seven, seven, seven. 



CHARITY. 

It is too rare a rarity, 

This human, humane charity 

That Christ enjoined. 
Of it His blessed teaching, 
By practice and by preaching 

Is oft recoined, 

Amalgamated, modified, 

And rolled so thin that none beside 

The working minter 
Knows it is meant for charity ; 
So great is the disparity, 

Scarce a splinter 

Of the pure, precious metal stays, 
Enough to ring amid the haze 

Of worldly woes, 
To ring with mocking echoes, 
But to bring no sweet repose, 

No Christ -like glows 



72 



LAND MA RK THIR TV- THREE. 

Of peace. Thin coinage passes here, 
E'en with its meagreness so sheer 

The light shines through ; 
But when we are uplifted, 
And all the chaff outsifted, 

It scarce will do. 

The tinkling sound that satisfies 
Our faith to earth, and ratifies 

Our truth to man, 
I doubt if God has noted ; 
But charity devoted 

He'll surely scan. 

And faith shall be rewarded, 
Unto the true accorded ' 

t 

The promise bright 
Of heaven and Christ's good will. 
God grant us charity until 

We coin aright ! 



LANDMARK THIRTY-THREE. 

Beloved one of thirty-three ! 
Darling husband unto me ! 
Whither do the bright years flee, 
Gliding on so cheerily? 



MY BABYS BIR THDA Y 73 

Ah ! it seems but yesterday 
Since we joined our life and way ; 
Life that's been a smiling May, 
Love and light, and love alway. 

Could we into heaven glide 
Through the golden gateway wide, 
As our birthdays side by side, 
Hand in hand o'er cross the tide, 

Life would be complete, I think. 
Now we're joyous on the brink ; 
Each birthday a happy link, 
Love to brighten every chink. 

May our little household band 
Be to thee life's golden sand ; 
Long we journey hand in hand, 
Ere our fragile life-barks strand ! 



MY BABY'S BIRTHDAY. 

Eyes of blue, bright years two, 

Shine in you ! 
And their restful little light 
Fills my soul with pure delight. 

As you wake, ripples break, 

Joy to take 
From your satin lips the kiss 
That is breaking into bliss. 



74 



MY BAB Y'S BIRTHDA Y. 

Joy to hold, watch unfold, 

Keep from cold, 
This most dainty, perfect plan 
God ordains to be a man. 

When he clears all the years, 

Smiles and tears, 
Will he still our baby be 
In the long eternity ? 

Bells of time, how you chime ! 

We resign 
All our brightest joys to you, 
Ring you so exact and true. 

Babes of two, boyhood through, 

Aged grew ; 
And our babies are no more, 
Here or on that other shore. 

Mother's heart sets apart, 

From the mart, 
A sacred spot in her soul 
For the babe while ages roll ; 

And no time, with its chime, 

Rain or shine, 
Can through longest life outwear 
The sweet baby footprints there. 

Years may go, ebb and flow, 

Still I know, 
Though my babe to manhood grow, 
That my soul embalms him, so, 



THE DAWN OF THE CENTENNIAL. 75 

As but two eyes of blue 

Violet dew, 
And a merry little life 
That I'd clasp away from strife ; 

That I clasp, while I ask 

(Happy task !) 
God to bless and care for him, 
For our earthly lights are dim. 

Christ to guide o'er the tide ; 

To abide 
In his soul, and gently thrill 
Word and action to His will. 



THE DAWN OF THE CENTENNIAL. 

The dawn of peace is breaking ! breaking ! 
See the lights and hear the heralds of the century to be ! 
While the whole united people, with a bending heart 

and knee, 
Crave the blessing of the Father, and thank Him that 
they are free. 
The dawn of peace is breaking ! breaking ! 

The nation unto joy is waking ! 
Note the throbbings of its full heart as they daily 

stronger grow ; 
Forgotten are the old discomforts, and the petty feuds 
I know 



7 6 THE DAWN OF THE CENTENNIAL. 

Vanish, as we group together of our proudest life-blood 
flow. 
The dawn of peace is breaking ! breaking ! 

The nation unto joy is waking ! 
A joy that will be pure, absorbing, untempered by the 

grief 
That comes with victories of war, and brings of sor- 
row with relief. 
A great outburst of gladness, a country's fully ripened 
sheaf. 
The dawn of peace is breaking ! breaking ! 

The nation unto joy is waking ! 
Its first hundred years are passing, and to celebrate its 

birth 
We extend free invitation all about the lovely earth, 
That our friends in lavish numbers sit at our Centen- 
nial hearth. 
The dawn of peace is breaking ! breaking ! 

The dawn of peace is breaking ! breaking ! 
See the lights and hear the heralds of the century to 

be ! 
While the whole united people, with a bending heart 

and knee, 
Crave a blessing of the Father, and thank Him that 
they are free. 
The dawn of peace is breaking ! breaking ! 



CAGING BIRDS. 

I'm going to cage my birds this morn ; 

While the sweet outside chirping thrills 

All blooming nature, softly fills 

The room through open window-sills ; 
A gushing drift of melody, 
An outburst from the cooing bills, 
A rejoice that the winter stills 
The cold, and patient waiting wills 

Are free to rear and build love-nests. 

The budding lilac hears the strain, 

Forgetful of the brumal pain, 

Its fragrance like a copious rain 

Fall thick from the clouds of purple. 
The emerald, waving, breathing grain, 
Takes to its heart the sweet refrain, 
And dances where it late has lain 

In long oblivious slumber. 
Unto the song strong trees do list, 
Wooed by the warblers' plighted tryst, 
T' promise the shining beaks that kissed 

Cover of leaves for nests they bring ; 

Cover of leaves from sun and mist, 

Cover and care for organist. 

And blushing blossoms ope and wist, 

7* 77 



73 



CAGING BIRDS. 

Then drop that short-lived loveliness. 
The madrigal of joy's unrest 
The breeze wafts in, its drift to crest 
Within the throbbing human breast ; 
And sympathy wafts out and in, 
Not unto mortals pinioned, lest 
His drowning care should fright the guest 
And drink the beauty alcahest. 

And so I wish to cage my birds ; 
My tiny bursts of rhythm bind, 
This morn while nature is so kind ; 
While bliss and fragrance close entwined 

Coax one's lax powers to energy, 

Intoxicate the sober mind, 

I'll smooth my flock, mayhap I'll find 

Few ruffled feathers, for I'm blind. 

The sense of sight is all dissolved 
In hearing, wrapt into the spring ; 
And if the humble songs they sing 
Be wretchedly distraught, I'll fling 
Them all unfettered to the wind, 
And pray the ambient air back bring 
Me peace, that it may fondly cling 
Mossing the empty cages, wing 

My thoughts beyond the height of birds ; 
Creep into my soul, and hide 
With its soft palm the welling tide 
That madly rocks from side to side; 



CAGING BIRDS. 79 

Still the wear that broads life's channel. 
One needs assistance thus to guide 
Their flock, the cage is open wide, 
But weird free songsters, all untried 

To cramping doors, refuse the way. 

My friend, cluster of gifts and grace, 

Comes to the rescue, sunny face 

Devoid of clouds, enough to brace 
All wavering nature into trust ; 
She shares with me the wearying chase, 
And tames the wildness of the race, 
Refractory feathers smooths in place, 

And fondles all to quietude. 

I marvel at her perfect skill 

In guiding creatures by her will, 

And see my birds all bound and still, 

While she departs heavy with thanks. 

The music soft without doth thrill, 

And bell of yellow daffodil 

Rings peace into the bounding rill. 

Silent my downy darlings lay, 
Murdered, miserable bits of clay ; 
Blind was I with the joy of May, 
Mad with the sunny face so gay 

Clasped in my wilding hope that day; 

I wept my birds and lost my way 

Up to fame, for the lingering ray 

Faded swift into twilight gray. 



go CAGING BIRDS. 

The musical light of life was out ; 

My nightingale so blithe and free 

Lies wingless, voiceless, on the lea; 

Red-breasted robin, stript of glee, 
Is graceless of beak as a parrot. 
My oriole's a chickadee, 
Gold-dust sanded canary, see, 
Can chant no more of jubilee, 

It hears no echo of its name ; 
They all are dead, my birds, and lost, 
Lost to me, and bitter the cost 
Seems to be, that my life was crossed 
By my own impatient prayer 
For earthly help. The ocean tossed 
Into the land has never glossed 
Too far the sand with silver 'bossed. 

The amber-glowing stars of night 
Have never failed to brightly shine, 
Though clouds that garland o'er our clime 
Oft veil them from us by their rime. 
The pulse of nature beats in time, 
Outbreathing through its form sublime 
The throbbings of the heart divine 
That fills the beauty of its chime. 

Man beats to the same great measure, 
And he who thinks his fate to sway, 
To cage his birds some other way 
Than patient labor day by day, 



"ROCKY MOUNTAIN ECHOES:' 

Because, forsooth, 'tis sunny May 
And joy swells out her roundelay, 
Loses his reckoning, and dismay 
Checkers his life. Better to stay 

Hyemal forever, than to wake 
Unto the glad heart chords of Spring, 
And, touching them too weirdly, bring 
A burst of discord that will fling 
Our hopes away beyond recall. 
Better to let the sweet birds sing 
Unbound in airy freedom, swing 
To their own cadence as they wing. 



THE REBOUND OF "ROCKY MOUN- 
TAIN ECHOES." 

I hear the echo faintly 

Through the distant air, 
They come to me sweet music, 
For my beloved are there. 
Trinkle they of mountains, 
Trinkle they of springs, 
Trinkle they of progress 
Civilization brings. 

I see the Rocky Mountains, 
With Denver at their base ; 

Watch the snow fall on them, 
And sun shine in your face. 



82 "ROCKY MOUNTAIN ECHOES:' 

Lightly, whitely, falls it, 
Down from angels' wings ; 

Through the weary twelvemonth 
To the summit clings. 

Now I travel with you through 

Monumental Park, 
And climb up rocky ledges, 
Or hide in shadows dark ; 
Drinking in the glory, 

Drinking in the strength, 
That is offered freely 
Along the Rocky length. 

I tread the fertile valley 

With beauty so replete ; 
I weave an ivy garland 

Around the mountain's feet ; 
Worshiping the Father, 

The great master-hand ; 
He who wrought this grandeur 
T' crown our Western land. 

I hear the echoes faintly 

Through the distant air ; 
Echoes of God's glory 
That is pictured there ; 
Echo on, sweet music, 

Echo back each prayer ! 
And gather our beloved 
Forever in thy care. 



THREADING FATE. 

A lonely woman, threading fate, 
Murmuring mourns the spring is late, 
And grieves that swelling buds must wait 
Till stronger sunshine bids them prate 
Of beauty, — threading fate so late. 

Fair, frail woman ! I surely know 
Your budding flowers will never blow ; 
They're dead and buried under the snow, 
Softly tableted years ago. 
Far down, they cannot blow, I know. 

Bury them down in your heart as deep, 
Let them lovingly silence keep ; 
Anon with balmy odors steep 
Your memory, and let them sleep 
In your soul, fragrance keep so deep. 

It is folly to grieve and mourn 

That after harvest-fields are shorn 

That fairest grain is upward borne 

And ruthlessly life's loves are torn. 

He knows when lambs are shorn : why mourn ? 

There's still a million flowers to bloom ! 
A million birds to wake with tune ! 
And angels to wash out the gloom ; 
Dear lonely woman, give them room 
Within your heart to bloom and tune. 



CALL ME MY PET NAME. 

Call me Tattie, or call me Tat, 

Call me by the pet name that 

My sister did her childhood through, 

Ere she to an angel grew, 

And let me feel the happy thrill 

Of her presence with me still. 

Call me Tat, angel ! 

Call me Tat, dear ! 

Ever so faintly, 

And I will hear. 

Sweetly, after the prayers were said, 
Slept we on our downy bed ; 
And, gathered in my close embrace, 
With her kisses on my face, 
Wove I visions of golden thread 
For the baby's heart and head. 

Call me Tat, angel ! 

Call me Tat, dear ! 

Ever so faintly, 

And I will hear. 

Half-score years she slept and woke, 
Then the brittle life- chord broke ; 
Suddenly it snapped in twain, 
Leaving us but grief and pain, — 



b' 4 



AUNT MARY. 85 

But a memory, oh, so sweet ! 
Echoes from her passing feet. 

Call me Tat, angel ! 

Call me Tat, dear ! 

Ever so faintly, 

And I will hear. 

Call me Tattie, or call me Tat, 
Sitting where we oft have sat, 
In the doorway cheery and low, 
Watching shadows come and go, 
Wee fond arms around me twine, 
And I dream that they are thine. 

Call me Tat, angel ! 

Call me Tat, dear ! 

Ever so faintly, 

And I will hear. 



AUNT MARY. 



There is silence in thy household, 
There is silence on thy hearth, 

Vanished is thy youthful romance, 
Into memory stored thy mirth. 

Now the moon is in its fullness, 

And its bright light, on me falling, 

Kisses, fondles thee the same ; 
And I seem to hear thee calling 

8 



86 AUNT MARY. 

Through the distance, far away ; 

So I come to thee in feeling, 
Come in spirit, still thy only 

Little girl before thee kneeling. 

Stroke the hair back from my temples; 

Comfort me and thee as well ; 
Let us twenty years turn backward, 

On the brightness let us dwell. 

Sunlight, moonlight of my childhood 
Broader beamed beneath thy smile, 

And how many happy hours 
Did thy kindly voice beguile ! 

Deep within my memory-garden 
Still are wee flowers growing there, 

That thou plantedst, my Aunt Mary, 
With thy gentle love and care. 

So from out my widening life-work 
Come I sometimes back to thee, 

Thinking I've so much to woo me, 
And how lonely thou must be. 

Lonely ! lonely ! art thou lonely 
As age clambers up to thee ? 

Or does life seem gliding nearer 
Unto our good Saviour's knee? 

That He'll take and soothe thy troubles, 
Righting all the wrongs of earth, — 

Sends He angels now to guard thee, 
Seeing, knowing all thy worth. 



BUTTERCUPS. 

" Cup of golden, 

I'm beholden ; 
Pray of fortune tell to me : 

Will I healthy 

Be, and wealthy? 
Or obscure in poverty ? 

Will a lover 

Round me hover 
When my beauty's on the wing? 

Bee the clover 

Watches over 
Fondest ever in the spring. 

Will I older 

Grow, and colder 
Be the beatings of my heart ? 

Fresh unfolden 

Cup of golden, 
Whispering my fate impart." 

Quoth the flower : 

"I've no power 
But in poesy to speak. 

Hold me under, 

And you wonder 
That I gild your chin and cheek. 

Questioning beauty ! 

Love is duty, 

87 



88 THE OLD WELL-CURB. 

And you fortune's mirror are ; 

Be reflecting 

As expecting, 
And your life's a golden bar. 

In the spring-time, 

In the snow-time, 
Buttercups are rooted strong ; 

In the flower-time, 

In the rain-time, 
Smile the fragrance of your song. 



THE OLD WELL-CURB. 

'Twas old and rotted, a dangerous thing, 

Unfit to cover the pure well spring ; 

The boards were patched, and the boards were loose, 

Unsound and unsafe for daily use ; 

The dainty foot of the wee housewife 

Noted the trembling, and feared the life 

Of her little ones, 
Her darling sons. 

She spoke to her husband soft and low 
Of peril in going to and fro 
O'er the open grave, that seemed to grow 
Wider, as worn boards bent so low : 
The husband smiled at her fancies weird, 
And saw no shadow in what she feared ; 

He smiled and kissed 
In truthful tryst, 



THE OLD WELL-CURB. 89 

But the old well-curb remained the same ; 

And the wife again, when summer came, 

Repeatedly warned, but still in vain. 

The well lapped in the sun and rain. 

Sweet for the woman ! — sweet for the well ! 

Had it been content with rain that fell, 

Nor wanted of more 
Than sky could pour. 

Her darling boys, in their romping play, 

Forgot that the curb was weak and gray. 

A shriek, of " Mamma !" was all she heard. 

The woman sprang in without a word, 

Into the well so clear and bright, 

To bring her babies back to light : 

She clasped them there 
With hasty prayer, 

And held them close in her longing arms, 

Against her bosom away from harms ; 

The weight was great, for the souls had fled, 

And the wee wife had her children — dead ! 

Of hopeless agony none can tell, 

Felt by the mother within the well. 

Then the angels there 
With loving care 

Bore her to the babes, where the waters wide 
Drink in no life on their silver tide. 
But the gap is here, it's yawning still, 
A gap that the earth can never fill, 

8* 



90 



LITTLE SAND-BARS. 

In life of him, who the curb below 
Found his darlings, and found his woe, 

'Neath the crystal flow, 
So long ago. 



LITTLE SAND-BARS. 

Full of sand-bars is life's ocean ; 
And he who clear of all would steer 
Must be a careful engineer. 

Daily, hourly, we're in danger 
Of going adrift, against a rift, 
That we see when the waters lift. 

Little troubles, little sand-bars 
Under the wave, to try the brave, 
And teach us not in vain God gave 

To souls a patient energy. 

Avoid the bars ! look to your spars ! 

That naught your true direction mars. 

Bring your ship safe to the harbor ! 
The voyage o'er, safe to the shore ! 
Where troubles, sand-bars, are no more. 



HOME FOR THANKSGIVING. 

"Come home for Thanksgiving, children ! 

Gather around the hearth ; 
The golden haze of autumn days 
Softly plays, and lingering stays, 
Enhancing all the glories 

Thanksgivings bring to earth. 

"Come home in the early morning ! 

As the Indian summer light 
Its halo lifts, and sunshine drifts 
With gentle breeze on barren trees, 
Gather it on the wayside, 

Ye children, young and bright !" 

"We'll come for Thanksgiving, mother ! 

Into the heart of our home, 
And clustered there away from care, 
We'll dream of life with beauty rife, 
Backward gliding through the years 

When we were all at home. 

"This morning was frosty, mother, 

The grass lay crackling and white ; 
The flowers are brown from autumn's frown, 
And yet we gaze through the purple haze, 
Remembering the beauties a-sped, 
Hugging their memories bright. 

91 



9 2 



HOME FOR THANKSGIVING. 

"'Tis better on Thanksgiving-day 
To rock our griefs to sleep ; 

And, oh, I would we only could 

Feel for one day that happy way 

We did two years ago ! 

But the sorrow's down so deep, 

"Deep, deep as the life itself! 

But this is Thanksgiving-day ! 
And we in praise our voices raise 
To God above, who in His love 
Gives blessings manifold 

And points to heaven the way. 

"He'll not forsake us, mother ! 

Though the autumn frosts and rain 
Heavily fall as a funeral pall ; 
There's a light quenchless bright, 
There's a balm in the calm, 

That will bring us relief. 

"Let us thank God for thee, mother ! 

For knowledge grief cannot dim ! 
The land of life beyond this strife, 
Our angels there, a constant prayer, 
That beautiful cherub link 

That binds our souls to Him." 



FLOWERS FROM OUR GRAVES. 

Flowers from the graves of our loved ones ! 

Flowers, dripping with perfume and dew ! 
Alyssums, geraniums, verbenas, 

And sage of a bright scarlet hue, 
Together so gracefully mingled 
* With tenderest reverence and care. 
'Twas mother plucked and arranged them ! 

'Twas mother who planted them there ! 

I love to kiss and caress them, 

These fragile young blossoms so fair ; 
They seem to attract my beloved ones 

From the beautiful " Over There. 1 ' 
Yet there's a thrill passes through me, 

A shiver that quenches my life, 
As I think how bitter the struggle 

Of parting, with agony rife. 

Why should these thoughts come to haunt me, 

Of things that ought not to have been ? 
Why should my nature rebel so, 

When God takes His own back to Him ? 
Forgive me ! these flowers whisper comfort, 

Their soft voices fall on my heart ; 
They tell me, in musical numbers , 

He loves us ! He calls us apart ! 

93 



OVER THERE. 

Just beyond the limpid waters 

Of time's silver, rippling stream, 
There's a realm of radiant beauty, 

Beautiful beyond a dream, 
Where no snows of age are falling 

Sadly with their weight of care, 
And no rains of heavy sorrow 

Hide the sunshine over there. 

We amid our earthly plodding 

Strive for worldly fame and gain, 
Grasping for the gold and glitter, 

For the gladness, and the pain, 
Till the thorns of life they wound us, 

Folded 'mid the roses fair, 
And aggrieved we cast them from us, 

Longing for the over there. 

While on this side of the river, 

On the side that we call life, 
We see every grade of mankind, 

From our stand-point view his strife, 
See him like a fragile flower 

Wither in the evening air, 
Watch his soul float o'er the waters 

To the haven over there. 
94 



OVER THERE. 

Little children, pure and holy, 

Wander here a few brief days, 
To beguile us with their smiling 

Rosebud lips and angel ways ; 
Then they flee, for Jesus calls them : 

Ere they know each worldly snare, 
They are folded to His bosom, 

'Mid the brightness over there." 

Youth and maiden, fair and fragile, 

Bud and blossom to decay ; 
Nothing that's gilded o'er of earth 

Can lingering shine for aye. 
Hope and beauty rear their castles 

Bright with ethereal air, 
Castles doorless, till the morning 

Beameth on us over there. 

Time, God's good and faithful watchman, 

Is ever the same on his beat, 
Crumbling castles, binding together 

For us the bitter and sweet ; 
Guiding us on to the river, 

And bidding us to beware, 
Lest we, stumbling, fall, and cannot 

Reach the good land over there. 

Hearken to his kindly warnings, 

Given with a voice so free, 
As he lifts the book of ages 

To its place upon his knee : 



95 



9 6 OVER THERE. 

"Ah! spring, summer, autumn, winter," 
He turns the leaves with care, 

And gathers the passengers in 
His boat, bound for over there. 

He gathers them in so fondly, 

And steers with untiring hand ; 
He dips his oar in the twilight, 

And shakes off the golden sand. 
His freight has passed the rapids ; 

Childhood, youth, and silvered hair 
Glide over the peaceful waters, 

To the harbor over there. 

Time hovers around our footsteps, 

Shedding a shadow and gleam, 
Giving a love, or a sorrow, 

To hasten on life's dream : 
He tells us in rain, in sunshine, 

In nature everywhere, 
In showering blossoms, or snow-flakes, 

Of the beautiful over there. 

Thither we hope we are going : 

The days, like visions of light, 
Come robed in wealths of fancy, 

Which flee with the sombre night, 
Bearing us on to the river, 

On — as we breathe a prayer 
That God, our Father and Giver, 

Will welcome us Over there. 



AT THE OLD MILL. 

Radiant day is slowly fading, 
And the evening calm and still, 

Gazing through the oak and willow, 
Stoops to kiss the ancient mill. 

Listen to the damsel dancing 
To the jig of feed and flour, 

And the water-wheel revolving 
With a dashing, constant power. 

There is music in the rattle 
Of the tinkling wheat that falls 

In the hopper, as the miller 

Stops to heed the gristmen's calls. 

Yes, I love this shaded building, 

Love the flowing stream and flowers, 

Love to hear the busy clatter 
On the lingering summer hours. 

More than all, I love the miller, 
For his sake I love the rest ; 

Of this world and its enchantments 
I adore him as the best. 

9 97 



9 8 THE SEWING-MACHINE. 

Of these twilights I would weary 
If his voice came not to cheer, 

And this mill-life would grow dreary 
If my darling was not here. 



THE SEWING-MACHINE. 

I'll just put a ruffle 

These bunch tucks between, 
For I think it a pleasure 

With sewing-machine. 

A puff for a heading 
Will not come amiss, 

A wee double ruffle 
As crowning to this. 

The clothes of my children 
I'll have all complete, 

With tucking and braiding 
Exquisitely neat. 

The slips of my pillows, 
The top of each sheet, 

With snowflaking ruffles 
The sleeper shall greet. 

As swan's downy feathers, 

So fleecy and fair, 
Shall be the soft cambric 

Of wrappers I wear. 



BROKEN REST. 

Elaborate their trimming 

Of ham burg and puff, 
I'm sure that the laundress 

Disdains them enough. 

Each good becomes evil 
When run to extreme : 

The laundress thinks thus of 
The sewing-machine, 

As, wearily pressing 

Each ruffle and seam, 
She blesses all else but 

The " murthering machine." 



99 



BROKEN REST. 

It was midnight in the winter ! 

I had been slumbering deep, 
Wakened by a horseman calling 

As he galloped down the steep. 

" Something dreadful, husband, happened ; 

Come, my darling, do arouse !" 
" Ah ! the wind is blowing bitter," 

Then essayed my sleepy spouse. 

" Now the horse is coming nearer, 

With a fearful hurried tread ! 
Our good neighbors or our people 

Must be dying, or are dead 1 



IOO THE SELF-SAME DUST. 

"It is passing, you are saying j 
But it turns — is back again : 

The messenger is tender-hearted, 
Really dreads to give us pain." 

Now aroused, my lord, descending, 
Goes without to face the blow : 

In again he is so quickly, 

'Tis a dreadful thing, I know. 

Fearful, tearful, sit I waiting, 
Up the steps I hear him groan, 

As I hold my breath and whisper, 
" I can bear it, precious one !" 

Choked with anger or emotion, 
Comes the answer, solemn, deep, 

" It's a darkey on a donkey, 
Galloping after sheep." 



THE SELF-SAME DUST. 

Pinks don't grow on a blackberry-bush, 

Or beets on a poplar-tree, 
No bow-apples grow where chestnuts are, 

Or where the shellbarks be. 

Daisies don't peep from the cedar's top, 
They never climbed so high ; 

The lowly chick-weed never touched 
The golden head of rye. 



THE SELF-SAME DUST. ioi 

We may theorize, and build our bridge 

Of plans the river o'er, 
We cannot coax the cranberry-vine 

Up higher than before. 

They're certainly made of the self-same dust, 

And by the self-same hand, 
But pines won't thrive on the water's edge, 

Or spring-cress on dry land. 

The velvet grass in a hundred years 

Could not bloom out a rose, 
Though the wilding-bush into its lap 

A million petals throws. 

But the feathery blossoms of the grass 

That cluster round our feet, 
More needful are to a perfect lawn 

Than blushing roses sweet. 

We may bright our allotted dust, while 

We cannot change its sphere ; 
We may lift its rightful budding up 

Into the golden clear. 



LINES 

TO MY BROTHER ON HIS MARRIAGE. 

From out the distant prairie 

Thou plucked' st a blossom sweet, 

And brought' st it with thanksgiving 
To make thy life complete. 

Thy heart's a royal garden, 
Where it will ever bloom ; 

A garden full of sunshine, 
Without a shade of gloom. 

I speak as though I knew it, 
For, brother, I've been there, 

Since the angels fenced it 
To thee a baby fair ; 

I've had a little corner 

Through all these growing years ; 
And know there's none more fertile 

Within this vale of tears ; 

Know the flower will flourish 
And shed its rich perfume, 
Making life a gala day, 
Perpetual early June. 
102 



RUM! 103 



We enjoy the garden bloom, 
And take our rightful share, 

According to the blossom sweet 
A heartfelt, welcome prayer. 

God bless wee prairie flower ! 

And keep it ever bright, 
Shedding a halo round thy life, 

An everlasting light. 

When the earth is fading out, 
And all its lights are dim, 

Mayst thou bear triumphantly 
Thy flower up to Him ! 



RUM ! 

O Rum ! Rum ! Rum ! 
With dirge-like drum ! 
With wiles of gain 
In light champagne, 
You hold in thrall, 
Embittering all 
These days of light 
With fearful blight. 

Your direful reign ! 
Your life-blood stain ! 
Foretastes the hell 
Your votaries swell 
Before they go 
To realms below, 



104 



RUM! 

Could we have strength, 
And time have length, 
To cleanse from black 
Your trailing track, 
If you were hurled 
Beneath the world, 
'Twould ages take 
The spell to break : 
Marred wealth and fame ! 
The gifted brain ! 
It makes one weep 
That you should steep 
With stain and brand 
The powerful hand 
Of genius. 

Rum ! 
Is your Work done ? 
Your sulphurous work ? 
Do you not shirk 
And trembling fall, 
Reviewing all 
The myriad ills 
Your blackness fills 
Into white hearts, 
Whence joy departs ? 

Your work is dire ! 
And Satan's fire 
Did shame devour ; 
But you shall cower 
Before the pure. 
Your death is sure ! 



OUR PEARLS. 

For God is true, 
And will undo 
These binding chains, 
These galling pains. 

The innocent, 
Whose souls are rent 
With misery, 
Feel most, and see 
The price of sin. 
We must begin 
With stronger might 
The temperance fight, 
With prayerful aid 
Your stain to fade 
From off mankind. 

From dross refined, 
Our nation's soul 
Will beat and roll 
Your funeral drum, 
False Rum ! false Rum ! 



io5 



OUR PEARLS. 

On what do we string our pearls, 
Our precious, glittering pearls ? 
On threads of silver and gold? 
On steel so icy cold ? 



106 OUR PEARLS. 

On a bright silken cord 
That binds with sweet accord 
And clasps our throat around, 
Making us softly bound, 
Clasped and yet left free 
On the tidal waves of glee ? 

Where do we gather our pearls, 

Our light and glittering pearls? 

In our toilsome daily life ? 

From out the world's broad strife ? 

From our beloved and tried, 

Where never a doubt implied 

Can dim the crystal flow 

Of water with pearls below? 

Or on that blissful shore 

Whence the tide comes in no more?. 

How do we gather our pearls, 
Oar pure, heart-treasured pearls? 
With patience that knows no mate 
Do we watch the golden gate, 
Lest, if we idly prate, 
They're gathered, and we are late? 
Do we treasure each tiny one, 
Wishing our work was done? 
Or cheerily fill the string 
With life an endless spring? 

When do we gather our pearls, 
Our thread of glittering pearls? 
In childhood's happy day, 
When sunshine's on the way ? 



THE MAY BURIAL. 107 

When buds burst into bloom, 
And life is all perfume, 
A brilliant draught of June ? 
Or at the radiant noon ? 
Before the sun shall wane 
And set on age and pain, 

Let us be gathering pearls, 

And threading while life unfurls ; 

Gathering from under the wave 

Where the tidal waters lave, 

When the tide is out or in, 

Shaking them out" from sin ; 

Threading them in our soul 

Fast for eternity's roll; 

A chaplet it may wear 

Up, up from earth and care. 



THE MAY BURIAL. 

Earth, take her tenderly unto your breast ! 
Angels, sweet minstrels, hushed her to rest ; 
Hushed, in the midst of love's labors and zest, 
Beats of a heart that was truest and best. 

Stilled unto us is her harp and her lyre, 
Gone to trill soul-music higher, up higher ; 
Out of the reach of the wearisome tire 
Circling around us ere fades out life's fire. 



I0 8 DREAMING. 

Lay her form tenderly on the May's heart, 

A flower of the flowers, the pure lily part ; 

God keep the blossoms who mourn her depart, — 

Keep them, and shield them amid the world's mart, 

Till at last, gathering all the sweet bloom 
In reunition above the May tomb, 
Angels so tenderly kiss off the gloom, 
Clasp them together in Love's glory room. 



DREAMING. 



Dreaming while the rain-drops 

Quiver on each spray ; 
Dreaming as the twilight 

Clasps the fading day; 
Dreaming while the lilac 

Droops its purple head 
To caress the violets 

That slumber on its bed. 

Dreaming while all nature 

Bathed in tear-drops lay ; 
Dreaming of the sunshine, 

Golden child of May ; 
Dreaming that the morrow '11 

Bring a wealth of bliss, 
While a wreath of blossoms 

Is crowded into this. 



" CHANGING IN THE NECK." 

Dreaming of the future, 

While the present lies, 
Like an unread volume, 

Opening to the skies. 
Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming, 

Surely dreams are vain, 
Else why sit so listless 

And dream them o'er again? 



109 



"CHANGING IN THE NECK." 

Not a spring since I remember 
But the heralds old have said 

The moon in the neck was changing, 
And the fruitage would be dead ! 

Shook their heads at all our visions 
Of the fullness that would come, 

Till I've learned to 'joy the blossoms 
And to let the fruit alone. 

What's the use to be expecting 
Moons to change in the neck, 

And be ever looking forward 
To trouble by the peck ? 

What's the use to be consulting 

For aye the almanac, 
When we might be methods planning 

To keep the trouble back ? 
10 



IIO SEALED BOOKS. 

What's the use by daily croaking 
To paint life's picture dark, 

And in every little rain-storm 
To think we need an ark ? 

What's the use to waste our prayers 
In craving what is not, 

While they might be spended wisely 
In thanks for good we've got? 



SEALED BOOKS. 

Neatly bound, securely sealed, 
Their contents ne'er to be revealed, 
Alas, how little some contain ! 
Of wisdom scarce a slight refrain : 
Life-books that are sealed the tightest 
Are sometimes in weight the lightest ; 
And we curious ones that wonder 
What's the pompous covers under, 
What sweet history marks their pages 
And lies silent through the ages, 
Would be sadly disappointed, 
Have our dream-clad forms disjointed, 
If the lock that's grown time-rusted 
Now would turn, and leaves all dusted 
From the mouldy webs and mosses 
Breathe to us their list of losses; 
All the mystery that enshrouds them, 
All the fame with which we crowd them, 



FROGS. in 

Into empty air would vanish, 
Every beauteous vision banish, 
And we fain would seal them tightly, 
Lest the pages blank, unsightly, 
Chase the rainbow light and glory 
From some mind that worshiped story. 

Ye who empty volumes carry, 
Keep them sealed, and never tarry 
For the searching eyes to open 
Musty leaves : wisdom unspoken 
Is by gilded bindings breathed, 
Ignorance best by silence sheathed. 
And though this plan deceitful be, 
It still is happiest policy : 
Our brains unto mysterious people 
Ever rear a vine-clad steeple ; 
Thus to books of choicest binding 
We accord the worthiest finding; 
Closed be, then, the barren pages, 
Let us keep our faith for ages. 



FROGS. 



Talk of romantic rambles, 

Of moonlight walks and dreams ! 

The most romantic things on earth 
Are the big frogs in the streams. 



H2 FROGS. 

They sit upon some moss-grown stone, 

Or on a grassy mound, 
And, gravely as an Eastern sage, 

Pour forth a croaking sound. 

They are so charitable, too, 
They give their concerts free ; 

But always dive down in the mud 
When men and boys they see. 

They wear a coat of brilliant green, 
And hose of brown or white ; 

But if you try their dress to scan, 
They swim clear out of sight. 

They are an emigrating race : 
If their home stream is low, 

They marshal all their croaking tribes 
And to another go. 

In every pond and creek they dwell, 

With music fill the air, 
And keep their neighbors all awake 

Till day dawns bright and fair. 

They always have a noble choir, 
That chant the unknown tongue ; 

And if you ask them what they say, 
They only answer, Ch-chung. 

The little urchin, when he sees 

Him seated on a log, 
Is sure to pick a pebble up 

And throw it at the frog. 



PROSPECT PARK. 

When the sombre night is silent, 
And earth would fain be still, 

They raise a piercing riot with 
Their voices loud and shrill. 

Now, some epicures consider 
Their flesh delicious food, 

And, by the law of might o'er right, 
Kill them because they're good. 

Thus I conclude my ditty 

About the pretty frog; 
And when you see another, boys, 

Don't knock him off a log. 



"3 



PROSPECT PARK. 

Nature and art in fond outvying, 
Smooth drives each other underlying, 
Trees and flowers of all variety, 
Blossoming and blooming without satiety, 
Lakes and islands, and boats for rowing, 
Hills and valleys in sunshine glowing, 
Cottages, arbors, archways inviting; 
God and man, their labors uniting, 
Have formed of this Prospect Park a wonder, 
Aglow with beauty above and under. 
10* 



H4 



PROSPECT PARK. 

Half the Sabbath-day I sat there 

In that rustic arbor, 
Half the Sabbath-day I dreamed 

The ship had entered harbor. 

Half the day I whiled away 

In framing my ideals : 
In every liveried coach came they, 

My darlings, my unreals, 

And, bowling up, they gathered me 

Unto ease and power, 
Attending me so carefully 

From all the ills that lower. 

They floated 'mid the forest-trees, 
'Neath the archways standing, 

These angels of my imagery, 
To save my ship from stranding. 

At the Park I watched the ebbing, 

Haifa day, of human tide, 
Musing, marveling, on the beauty, 

Thinking heaven this side. 

Now I leave my rustic bower, 
Mounting on to higher ground, 

See the old Atlantic Ocean, 

See the vessels homeward bound : 

Homeward bound ! my heart is breaking 

With its weight of misery ! 
The ship that bore my lover out 

Sleeps in the cold, cold sea. 



THE CROOKED CEDAR. 

Half a day, and half a life, 
Is all that's left to me : 

A broken heart, a broken life, 
Is a sad legacy. 



ii5 



THE CROOKED CEDAR. 

They bring me a cedar for Christmas, 

A tree that has grown awry ; 
I prune it and change its dimensions, 

But 'twill not be straight or high. 
It seems to have grown on a hill-side, 

Swayed by each adverse wind, 
Shadow of torrid and frigid zone 

Pictured on cedar kind. 
O winds ! why will ye blow so, and bend 

The tender, fragile trees ? 
Doctrinal winds ! why will ye blow, 

And crook our souls like these ? 
Thus in all God's great wide forest 

So rare are perfect trees ; 
We all are lopped by some strong wind, 

Or bent by passing breeze. 
When Christ's good Christmas comes on high, 

Who'll bring a cedar, shapely, fair, 
A soul exempt from bend or gnarl, 

For the Christmas over there ? 



STRUGGLING FOR A FOOTHOLD. 

Struggle, struggle bravely on ! 
It will come, a foothold strong. 
Rest awhile your heart and feet, 
Then press boldly up the steep, 
Climbing on to higher ground 
Until standing-room is found, 
Far above the mist and chill 
That dampen energy and will ; 
Far above the mire and dust 
That breathe despondency and rust. 

Though the way be wearying long, 
Unflinchingly press up, press on ! 
At the journey's end there'll lay 
'Mid the stones a notch of clay 
That your way-worn feet will fit, 
And your life-lamp will be lit. 
Basking in the brightness there, 
You'll forget the toil and care, 
And the struggling and the pain 
Make your foothold greater gain. 



116 



"GONE UNDER." 

Gone under the current ! the popular tide 
That angrily flashes from side to side ; 
Wild waves financial ! how fitful your dash, 
And round the unfortunate foamingly lash ! 
Could you, oh, would you 

But rest for awhile ! 
Hold back your waters 
Till fortune might smile ; 

But sleep on the sand just a hand's-breadth away, 
Sleep while he drew back.his castle of clay ; 
'Twas through inadvertence he reared it so near, — 
Hush, waves ! a moment, till friends help to clear. 
Could you, oh, would you 

But rest for awhile ! 
Hold back your waters 
Till fortune might smile. 

Friends came up slowly, but waves rushed along, 
The lull in their coming but loudened their song. 
Wrecked is the castle, in ruins it lies, 
But its strong containings the storm sanctifies. 
Could you, oh, would you 

But rest for awhile ! 
Hold back your waters 
Till fortune might smile. 

117 



Ti8 THE SUMMER RAIN. 

There beam in the distance true friends and tried, 
Swayed not by depth of the pocket or tide, 
Blossoming all helpful ; and kindly the way 
Through the dim vista is opening to-day. 
Could you, oh, would you 

But rest for awhile ! 
Hold back your waters 
Till fortune might smile. 

Out of the wreck of that castle so fair 
Rose stronger purpose to dare with more care ; 
The builder, eschewing these foundings of sand, 
Will rear him a temple on solid dry land. 
And high tide may come, 
False friendships outgo ; 
Back from the waters, 
He fears not their flow. 



THE SUMMER RAIN. 

Patter and pelt upon the roof, 
The rain and hail together 

Are dancing, as they clatter out 
The rhyme of summer weather. 

Now a golden flash of lightning 
The darkened sky is gashing ! 

And rumbling thunder fills the air, 
Harsh clouds together clashing ! 



THE SUMMER RAIN. 119 

Rushing and crushing comes the gale 

Of wind that is swept along, 
After the thunder and lightning, 

Like the chorus to a song. 

And coquetting rain in dashes 

Comes, for the fury's over, 
Dancing with a gentler music 

Into the blossoming clover ; 

Into the thirsty flower-cups 

The lawn and meadow gracing, 

Out along the dusty highways 
The waters now are racing. 

Look ! look ! there's a brightness coming ! 

Hushed is the voice of thunder, 
All dripping nature gazes up 

Smiling with joy and wonder. 

And the dark gray clouds are parted, 

The sun in regal glory 
Bursts through the darkness, that he may 

Repeat the beautiful story ; 

See it lined upon the sky ! 

God's promise of years ago, 
Sending a thrill of love adown, 

Arrows of light from the bow. 

It comes like a benediction, 

Breathing the spirit of prayer, 
Calming nature, and whispering, 

"The earth is under my care." 



LANGUAGE. 

The first that falls from baby lips 
Is Papa, Mamma : sweet it drips ! 
Sweeter than any other word 
That by a parent heart is heard ; 

And oft we woo the tender strain 
From the baby over again, 
For our longing love of sound, 
And the joy in language found. 

I oft have thought no joy so great 
As watching by the opening gate 
That's just ajar with little words, 
For my glad chirping human birds: 

To push it wider, have them say, 
After mamma, in their own way, 
" Dainty pet," and " darling child !" 
Kiss my lips because I smiled, 

And have their loving homage sweet 
To round and crown my life complete. 
Their faith so perfect in my good, 
As though a white-winged angel stood 
1 20 



LANGUAGE. 121 

Supporting the maternal soul, 

And giving sin the distant roll. 

One feels their weakness, yet grows strong 

In the dependence, and along 

With the beloved babes up- climbs, 
To hear the heavenly seraph chimes. 
Language ! innate, immortal man 
In early break of silence can 

Feel upon him the sacred stamp, 
Indelible through life's turmoil damp ! 
Indelible ! though as curling smoke 
Yon engine on the stillness broke, 

And, quickly hid in nether air, 
Our sweetest words dissolve in care, 
And faith, moth-eaten, lays away ; 
But baby hearts are pure alway, 

And by the first sweet words they say 
They gather up the broken lay 
We in our childhood lost, and sing 
Love's eager inquiries, to bring 

Us back to trust in all divine, 
To worship at the snowy shrine, 
To love our God and language more, 
Because the roses on our shore 

At first are buds, and shed around 
A freshness in no blown rose found ; 
A sacred sweetness and a charm, 
The echoing touch of Jesus' arm. 
ii 



BURY ME AT SUNSET. 

As the golden light is dying, 
As the autumn winds are sighing 

O'er the lea, 
As the flowers are twilight greeting, 
Heaven and earth seem gently meeting, 

Bury me ! 

As you would a child when sleeping, 
Lay me down, and be not weeping 

O'er the bier ; 
As the twilight round you hover, 
Let the earth my clay form cover, 

Check each tear. 

Bury me when labor's ended, 

And your thoughts to heaven are tended 

With the eve ! 
Bury me with fond affection ; 
When you've time for sweet reflection, 

Do not grieve ! 

As the golden light is dying, 
As the autumn winds are sighing 

O'er the lea, 
As the flowers are twilight greeting, 
Heaven and earth seem gently meeting, 

Bury me ! 

122 



THAT OLD BEDSTEAD. 

It's burning now, that old bedstead, 

With crackling, rushing flame ! 
Shedding the firelight round the room 

Like fickle flash of fame. 
A bright red light's a moment there, 

A flashing, glimmering beam : 
Never a knob or post appears 

When fire has ceased to gleam. 

That old bedstead of sixty years 
Is dead, — and yet we shed no tears. 

If that old 'stead had tongue to tell 

Of all it nursed to sleep, 
The grief and gladness of its life 

Since hewn from wildwood deep, 
It would make a ponderous volume, 

Bestrewn with mirth and woe, 
Of those who slept in that bedstead 

Old, of sixty years ago. 

That old bedstead ! dear, ancient thinj 
Around it shadowy visions cling. 

Naught of its history I know, 

None of its hidden lore ; 
Stown in the garret for rubbish, 

It slept on the darkened floor, 

123 



124 



THAT OLD BEDSTEAD. 

Till love's sunlight gleamed upon me ; 

Then I married, you know, 
And rummaged my new home over, 
Laid the old bedstead low. 

That old bedstead ! 'twas doubtless dear 
To some who've gone from earthly cheer. 

A conscious pang of grief I feel, 

As flames in eager haste 
Crackling rush at the old bedstead ; 

'T may be treasure I waste ! 
But it's gone ! and the ashes lie 

Soft as down on the hearth. 
Those who slept in that bedstead old 

Faded away from earth. 

That old bedstead of sixty years 
Sleeps in ashes of unshed tears. 

" Earth to earth, ashes to ashes !" 

This is the fate of all. 
Bedsteads carry a weight of years ; 

We list the angels call. 
Other youth will our treasures burn ! 

The wood we value most 
Will soon unto some careful bride 

Seem but an old bed-post. 

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes ! 
Youth to age in sunshine flashes. 



MORNING. 

See the dawning ! the awaking 
Of the spirits of the deep ! 

See ! the golden day is breaking 
Roseate from the arms of sleep ! 

Lifts her diamond-dripping sceptre 
Over summer's blushing brow, 

And what glory time has left her 
Breaks and bursts in beauty now. 



A MOTHER'S THOUGHT. 

There are times it is hard to bear 
The tender yoke of motherhood, 
Fitting each thought to breathe of good 

To the dear children, and to share 

Constantly the sunshine with them, 

When the heart is blocked with clouds, 
And, slowly dying, hide the shrouds 

And swell to joy grief's requiem. 

ii* 125 



I2 6 INTO THE SUMMER OF 1865. 

Affection's halo fills the air ! 

Each little child has brought its load 
Of love from off the angel road, 

And rests it in the parent's care. 

Richly garnered dew of heaven ! 

It lights the yoke, and no long grief 
Can heavily press, where the relief 

Of baby hands is given. 



INTO THE SUMMER OF 1865. 

The war is o'er, the winter gone ! 

We bask in summer light, 
And read the glory of the time 

From nature's volume bright. 

The flowers, with petals downy soft, 

Are clad in rainbow hues, 
And turn their tiny faces up 

To catch the evening dews ; 

Or, drooping low, they touch the earth, 
Bowed by a weight of days, 

Their leaves all browned, heeding not 
Whither the dew-drop strays. 

They are into the autumn, in 

The noon of summer-time, 
While other beauties wake to life 

Our bowers to entwine. 



INTO THE SUMMER OF 1865. 127 

So we are into the summer 

Speeding the days along, 
Dreaming of loves and flowers, with 

Peace for our chorus song ! 

Peace God gives to our country 

After its warfare dire ; 
Peace to the hearts all singed and burnt 

By purifying fire ! 

Peace unto us Americans ; 

Peace, if we worthy prove 
Of the great boon that's granted us 

By His undying love. 

And the breezes blow more lightly, 

The fields are brighter green, 
The birds sing on more cheerily, 

The sun's a milder gleam ! 

Our hearts are tuned to music 

Qf joy and summer-time, 
It rippling murmurs in our lives 

Of that ethereal clime 

Where all is peace and golden light, 

And angels fill the air ; 
Never a care of earth can creep 

Into the summer there. 



THE AGED. 

Every silvery, shining hair, • 

Every furrow on the brow, 
Each kind smile that lingers there, 

Tells their days are numbered now : 
Tells that time is going, going, 
That their life- stream's flowing, flowing. 

And we fondly love the aged, 

Love to have them cross our way, 

Love to give them every comfort 
Ere they're borne from us away; 

Of joy have them drinking, drinking, 

And of pleasure thinking, thinking. 

They were young and blithe as we, 

And we love to have them tell 
Of the olden haunts and comrades 

T' which they're bound by memory's spell ; 
And as death comes nearer, nearer, 
To our hearts they're dearer, dearer. 

Time has o'er them showered her snow-flakes, 
Grief her tears, and joy her dews ; 

Kind experience lights them onward, 
As each one his life reviews. 

Evening winds are sighing, sighing, 

Aged loved ones dying, dying. 
128 



WALTER UNDERGLEN. 

Three years we've dwelt together, 

Three years of fleeting joy ; 
I had outgrown my childhood, 

He never was a boy ! 

At least his father said thus, 

And how can I gainsay? 
I who had never seen him 

On any young birthday ? 

To me he seemed a gentleman, 

This Walter Underglen ; 
A round above, and different 

From all other men. 

He was my tutor often, 

And taught me much of lore, 

Of music, books, and nature, 
I knew not of before, 

He breathed the same old story, 

That story sweet and old, 

That stirs the hearts of all men 

Since Adam crossed the wold. 

129 



130 



WALTER UNDERGLEN. 

He seemed to me so confident 

I'd gladly be his wife, 
My pride aroused, I answered 

I'd prefer a single life ! 

Shunned, lest he should weary me 

With importunity, 
I left the dear old home, and sought 

A new community. 

He followed soon, and wrote me oft, 

But never I replied ; 
Because I felt I would not give 

What I had once denied. 

I traveled on for rest and ease 

In Germany and France; 
I learned of the world's hollowness, 

A little truth by chance. 

Learned my heart was true and deep, 
And did not suit the glare 

Of fashion and coquetry 
It practiced over there. 

I came home lone and weary 

To Walter with my love : 
I found him not awaiting, 

But mated to a dove, 

A fair and fragile creature, 

Whose young and sunny heart 

Bounded quick to meet me, 
Nor noted Walter's start. 



WALTER UNDERGLEN. 131 

I crushed my heart to bleeding, 

Must fain dissemble on; 
I smiled and was the gayest 

Of all the household throng. 



The great white moon was shining 

Its full of summer-time ; 
Walter stood alone with me, 

And said, Oh, Adaline ! 

He thought that I had wedded 

A count of high estate, 
And lived in pomp in Europe : 

Thus gossip sealed my fate ! 

Somehow he saw I loved him, 
My Walter brave and strong ! 

We rambled on together, 
Forgetful it was long; 

A bush of pearly snow-drops 
Stood drooping in our route ; 

We paused to gather clusters, 
Of holiness devout. 

They checked our wandering footsteps, 
Those drops so snowy white, 

Read us a silent lesson 
Of purity and light. 



132 



TO GRANDMA. 

'Twas not the Walter I had loved, 

He was another's now! 
I'd twine the snow-drops in a wreath 

And bind them on my brow. 

My lover was a distant myth, 

A vision of the past. 
I am happier now, I think, 

With freedom at my mast. 

Walter, a true and noble man, 

His little Elma cheers \ 
She knows not the sad mistake 

That gave her him for years. 



TO GRANDMA. 

Two crutches bear thy weight, Grandma, 
Two crutches slight and strong : 

They are thy faithful oars, Grandma, 
To row thy bark along. 

Within the past short year, Grandma, 
Thy sufferings have been great : 

I would that God had given me 
Power to alleviate ! 

Thy form was lithe and light, Grandma, 

Thy limbs did service well : 
It may be they had done enough ; 

It may be, — who can tell ? 



WE CANNOT. 



1 33 



We must have our downfalls, Grandma, 
Though some come late in life ; 

But thou and I have learned, Grandma, 
To look beyond this strife. 



WE CANNOT. 

We cannot count the drops of rain 
That come to fresh the earth again, 
Or span the rainbow God has lain 
Along the sky in lovely chain ; 

Cannot number the blades of grass 
Under our feet in velvet mass ; 
Or see through our dim earthy glass 
Half the glory we daily pass ; 

Cannot measure the free pure air 
Filled with life that is everywhere ; 
Cannot fathom the love and care 
Of God, who weighs a beggar's prayer; 

Or know why it should heavier be 
Than gifts of Our mock charity 
We load on outward form so free 
To fit us for eternity. 

We cannot see, when color-blind, 
Half the beauty He has defined, 
Or feel the halo on mankind, 
Unless we are of dross refined. 

12 



THE SPARROWS. 

"Oh, mamma, come quick!" he gasps, 
With terror in voice and eyes : 

The mother like a frightened 
Fawn after his wee feet flies. 

Out beneath the apple-trees, 
Half hidden amid the grass, 

Smiles her sunny baby's face, 

And the cloud doth lift and pass. 

Elsie's heart in anxious fear 
Is sobbing the trouble out : 

" Mamma, the wind blew down the 
Nest, birds are scattered about ! 

" The old mother-bird can't get 
Them up : they are dead, all four. 

Mamma, gather them up ; make 
Them well as they were before !" 

Four little sparrows and their 
Nest under the apple-tree ; 

The human mother lifted 
Them up, oh, so tenderly ! 
i34 



FORGET THAT LOVE. 135 

To the nest the breathing two, 

And she placed it on the tree, 
To still the parent sparrow 

Hearts that chirped their misery. 

The prattling baby, laughing, 

Clasped the two birds dead and still: 

The trio sat on clovered 

Turf to wait the sparrows' will ; 

They flew to their nest and found 

But half their happy flock ; 
Then, flitting down below, they 

Touched almost the baby's frock ; 

And dainty food was in the 

Bill of one that nearest came : 
" Oh, mamma, put them in the 

Nest, they'll love them all the same." 

The mother presses tearful 

Face, from sunny lifts a kiss, 
And lays the dead birds in the 

Nest, the sparrows' grief and bliss. 



FORGET THAT LOVE. 

Forget you ever loved me ! 

Banish that fleeting dream ! 
Think not that it must linger 

The shadow it would seem. 



i 3 6 



THE DEAD LETTER. 

Let sunshine gleam about you, 

Dispelling each regret ; 
You've all the friends around you 

That loved you ere we met. 

Waste not in vain repinings 
The morning of your youth, 

But let firm friendships gladden 
Your heart of fervent truth. 

If thoughts of me disturb you, 
Oh, chase them from your mind ! 

For when I chatted with you, 

'Tvvas friendship's wreath I twined. 

Your dreams as mine I fancied, 

Unconscious all the while 
That deeper thought than kindness 

Was lurking 'neath your smile. 

Think not I was unfeeling 
To slight each look and vow ! 

But go and love another ! 

Friends we were then, and now. 



THE DEAD LETTER. 

Considering it better, 
I regret that letter 
Which broke the fetter 

Whose bond was sweet. 



THE DEAD LETTER. 

I wrote with vexation, 
With condemnation, 
Forgetting my station, 
And thought discreet. 

And now, believe me, 
'Twould sorely grieve me 
To have her leave me 
Out of her heart. 

Yet I have told her 
I would not hold her 
To promise, but colder 
Be, and apart. 

Now I am fretting 
With vain regretting: 
The sun is setting 

'Gainst bars of fate. 

Oh, had I not spoken, 
Or given a token 
That faith was broken, 
How I could wait ! 

Wait for a beaming, 
A fond love gleaming, 
That I'd been dreaming 
Of with her hand. 

Her heart seemed divided, 
Her love undecided, 
As slight finger glided 
Into gold band. 
12* 



137 



38 THE DEAD LETTER. 



Then her coquetting 
Seemed a regretting 
Girlhood was getting 
Daily more brief; 

So, though her flirting 

Was not deeply hurting 

The life it was girting, 

'Twas a relief 

Fair freedom to proffer, 
And generously offer 
The dandy whose coffer 
Is full of gold, 

But empty of brains 
And goodly contains, 
The chance that remains 
Of being more bold. 

But now I repent it, 
Grieve that I sent it. 
My heart never meant it, 
Delia Forsha ! 

What is 't you're bringing, 
Waiter, and flinging, 
Nor ceasing your singing ? 
Letter, you say ! 

I haste to receive it. 
Would you believe it ? 
I can reprieve it : 

That letter's dead. 



ICTODES FCETIDUS. 

Uncle Sam, magician ! 
My good physician ! 
Joy ! joy ! Elysian ! 

Not read, but dead ! 



139 



ICTODES FCETIDUS. 

A PARODY. 

Expansive green herb, inhabiting the shadows, 

Or blooming on the mere, 
Or where the frogs and turtles of the meadows 

Shrink from the hidden weir ! 

Thou laughest at the fish, and at their worry 

Because the stream is low, 
And from the loaming depth they cannot hurry, 

But flap about the slough. 

Born to the largeness, born to the verdant incense, 
Thou need'st not speak or spin, 

For the whole air is laden with thy presence, 
Along the pond and lin. 

The summer wind against thy outspread awning 

Plays dalliance with the sun, 
And the rude tussocks are thy footmen warning 

When low the waters run. 



140 



OLD AND NEW. 



The dragon-fly, thine holiday attendant, 

Leaves serpent in the field, 
And o'er thy heavy foliage is pendent 

With bayonet and shield. 

Thou art the cabbage, green among the greenest, 

All armed with umbrellas, 
And, hoisting them above thy manor, seemest 

To distrust thy fellows. 

Thou art the sluggard, haunting laggard rivers, 
To drink their brightest dreams, 

Creeping and thirsting till the stream delivers 
Thee all its silver gleams. 

O cabbage of swamp, be still, and let the glory 

Rest on thy head no more ! 
Sink into oblivion with this story, 

And never shroud the shore. 



OLD AND NEW. 

Whenever the new excels the old, 
Let us quaff from her silvered cup ; 

But till we are sure her draught is best, 
Let us not give the old drinks up. 



THE HAIR THEY WEAR. 



141 



Though great be the charm in fresh and new, 
The staunch and tried are more to me : 

I would not forsake a friend that's true 
For all the diamond depth of sea. 

And I would not give the dear years past 
For all the new bloom of to-day : 

The sun-blown grass about our feet is 
Not more sweet than the garnered hay. 



THE HAIR THEY WEAR. 

Whose hair do you wear, my sister fair ? 

Said I, with a nonchalance tender, 
While taking a sup from my coffee-cup 

(I'd not for the world offend her). 
Bat where is the use of this abuse 

Heaped on the brain's frail casket ? 
Of making a muff of curl and puff? 

The warmth of head don't ask it. 
Behind and before, up higher and more, 

This stack of wool is extended, 
Until, I declare, I don't know where 

Is the hair that nature intended 
For framing the face, and cranium's grace, 

Unless underneath it be hidden ; 
Far under the mop, lest if it lop 

From its binding, and fall unbidden, 



1 42 THE HAIR THEY WEAR. 

It be so astray that the world to-day 

To see that it grew be astonished : 
Each little bird I lately have heard 

Go back to its leaf-home admonished, 
For often, of late, I hear the birds prate, 

Lamenting their nests that are missing ; 
With covetous eye they're peeping so sly 

At head of the sister I'm kissing. 
Ridie, I know the wrens want you ! so 

I would spare them part of this crowning ! 
The upholsterer, too, is looking us through, 

On your lavishing hair he is frowning. 
So have a great care, my lady ! beware ! 

Lest they talon you off in their clutches ! 
Don't fasten it tight, when in their sight : 

They fancy these exquisite touches ! 
Now don't look so cross ! 'twould be a loss 

If you'd go with the stuff, I aver. 
Be sure it has cost ! but money is lost 

Where its loss we could daily deter. 
Rude danger's prow is shadowing your brow 

In this wild profusion, my fairy ! 
I solemnly vow, there's a vulture now 

That will pounce on it for an eyrie ! 
I could not endure the hornets, I'm sure, 

That follow this bamboozle after ! 
They'll certainly sting ! look how they cling ! 

Ugh ! they're waking up at your laughter ! 
A vision I see, most fearful to me ! 

I would I were hibernated, 
Till good new time like the old shall shine, 

When never a head is inflated. 



GOOD-BY. 

Now it comes, the hour of parting, 

Coming with the waning day ! 
Friend from friend in love departing 
Hies to happy home away. 

Good-by, good-by, good-by ! 
Oh, why, oh, why, oh, why 
Was the bitter word good-by 
E'er coined beneath the sky? 

Warm and glad the clasp of greeting, 

Bright with joy the features glow; 
But when friend from friend's retreating, 
Then the grasp is lingering, slow. 

Good-by, good-by, good-by ! 
Oh, why, oh, why, oh, why 
Was the bitter word good-by 
E'er coined beneath the sky? 

'Tis beneath, but not above it, 

Thank the Lord, whose grace is free ; 
And His promise, how we love' it ! 
Of the greetings glad to be. 

On high, on high, on high 
There comes no sad good-by; 
And, as we upward fly, 
Serene will be our sky. 

i43 



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